


Book One: A Deadly Game

by Devilbaby



Series: Werewolves of London: On the Presence of Supernatural Beings in Victorian England [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: AU, Angst, Case Fic, Holmes and Watson are soulmates, Holmes and Watson first meeting: not even a little bit canon, Hurt/Comfort, Lestrade is just trying to do his job, M/M, Moriarty is a bastard, Supernatural - Freeform, Whump, mycroft is a badass, werewolves vampires and fairies oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 72,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25441129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilbaby/pseuds/Devilbaby
Summary: "There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." - HamletA puzzling murder, a corrupt priest, and an enigmatic doctor with a dark secret all come together to send Holmes on a journey into the world of the supernatural from which he might never return.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Werewolves of London: On the Presence of Supernatural Beings in Victorian England [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065332
Comments: 127
Kudos: 52





	1. The Midnight Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> This was co-authored with my good friend (Ao3 handle StarkRogers) and we decided to use very few warnings or tags because a lot of things happen in this story and we wanted most of them to be a surprise. That being said, we also believe in the value of trigger warnings for people who need them so our solution is to provide relevant warnings in the chapter summaries. Please read the summaries if you have triggers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings

From the secret diary of Dr. John Watson MD, discovered some time after his death and reprinted here with kind permission from the Diogenes Society, London Branch:

_“I have written many times of my adventures with Sherlock Holmes, and many times have been accused of being a man with an extraordinary gift for either storytelling or lying, depending on the source. But while I have never denied that the events in my stories rarely happened as I transcribed them and that I took many liberties, I admit now in the twilight of my years that the truth is far stranger, far more terrifying and far more wondrous a thing than any mortal could have ever envisioned._

_Here then, is the true account of my first meeting with Sherlock Holmes, which started not with some ghastly murder, but rather the intention of one...”_

Chapter 1: The Midnight Stranger

London, 18-- 1.

The dense, black smoke belched up from the broken-toothed silhouette of the London skyline, mixing with the fog off the Thames and wrapping the city in a coal colored shroud of industrialized poison. The city appeared empty, people locked tight in their houses, monolithic buildings like gravestones standing silent sentry in the night while along the road oil lamps hung like forlorn ghosts, limning the streets in a dissipated yellow glow.

Presently the sound of a carriage suffused the heavy silence, emerging reaper-black from the gloom and coming to rest on the corner of Marylebone Road. A sole passenger disembarked and with a quiet exchange of payment sent the carriage on its way, clattering wheels muffled by the dense fog. The figure lingered on the corner, striking up a cigarette with one hand cupped around the match to shield it from the damp, staring into the impenetrable darkness with an equally obscured expression. Finally they crushed out the nub of cigarette and turned down the corner of Baker Street, up the cut stone steps of a nondescript building and rapped sharply upon the door.

****

Sherlock Holmes was not yet asleep. This was not an unusual state of affairs but he saw no reason to advertise the fact and thus ignored the knocking at the front door in favor of turning his attention back to the monograph he was writing; a comprehensive study of poisonous plants indigenous to the British Isles along with their various effects upon the human psyche. He had spent several months in thorough research after all and was nearly finished. A vial of cocaine, near two-thirds empty rested precariously close to the edge of the desk. 

The knocking persisted. Politely at first, but with rising fervor.

Holmes sighed. Under normal circumstances mysterious strangers knocking at Baker Street in the dead of night were Mrs. Hudson's purview but she was visiting a sister and so Holmes was obliged to deal with it himself, which he did by opening the upstairs window and shouting down,

"Have you any idea of the time?"

The figure pulled back slightly to peer up at him, but Holmes couldn’t make much of him through the pea soup fog. The vague outline of suit and hat...a gentleman then.

"I require a detective," the man called in a strong tenor that rang through the heavy night air.

"Hmmm," Holmes rumbled, "I suppose you ought to come in then." He left the window, threw on a dressing gown, stuck a pipe in the corner of his mouth and went downstairs, running a hand through the snarled tangle of his hair. He pulled open the door and stepped aside, waving the man in with an impatient gesture. He wondered briefly at the odds of the whole thing being a waste of time, but given the hour there was bound to be something to the business.

A tall, pale man stepped in with a purposeful stride. He wore a dated but nonetheless well-tailored suit of grey houndstooth under his coat and shoes that spared neither expense or polish. Leather riding gloves, a bowler hat and a mustache with not a hair out place painted the picture of a man of meticulous habit.

“Thank you,” said the stranger with a formal nod, “I know the hour is unusual, but the matter is quite urgent.” He removed his hat to reveal blond hair as carefully groomed as the rest of him.

"I should hope so," Holmes replied a bit dryly, directing the man towards a seat with a flick of his fingers. Generally speaking, interviews took place upstairs in his sitting room, but Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be back for another three days and he wasn't feeling particularly welcoming tonight. "What is your trouble?"

The man removed neither hat nor glove as he took a seat, clasped hands resting on his knees. "I believe a man has been set in place to kill me," he said calmly.

Holmes made an inscrutable noise in the back of his throat. "You do look pale,” he remarked. “Please, tell me everything to do with the business.”

The man nodded, and began. "I became aware of him a night or two ago. He was stalking my habits, lurking near my home. This alarmed me, as I have a few enemies who would be willing to kill me."

"And you are certain this man is after you specifically?"

"Quite certain; he had attention only for me every time I observed him, and upon him noticing my notice he would turn away and pretended to engage himself elsewhere."

"And what makes you certain his goal is murder?"

"That is what I need a detective for," the man said, spreading his hands. "I am certain, but my instinct is not enough. I need proof, and so I have come to you."

Holmes cocked an eyebrow, for that was no answer at all. "Forgive me, Mister-" he let the sentence hang, waiting.

"Doctor, actually," the man answered. "Doctor Jackson. I apologize for not introducing myself; this matter has me quite concerned."

"Well, I am sorry Doctor Jackson. But I cannot possibly help you if you are not honest with me."

Jackson’s eyes narrowed for a moment, the blue turning to steely grey. "What do you mean?"

"You know very well what I mean," Holmes replied, staring steadily back.

"I haven't lied to you about anything," Jackson said slowly, his voice becoming heavy, the air around them growing thicker, more oppressive.

"But you have not been entirely forthcoming either," Holmes countered, and if he noticed the change in the atmosphere he did not comment on it. "A man who is distraught enough to seek out a detective in the middle of the night because he fears for his life is not simply following instinct. You are a man with a few enemies at least, you have admitted to that plainly enough and there may be many reasons one of them would have you followed; to presume murder you draw either on past experience or paranoia-" his eyes glanced over the stranger, head to toe "-and you are not a paranoid man," he finished definitely. "You have a reason to believe this man wants you dead, and it is that reason you are withholding from me.”

Jackson stared at Holmes intensely as he spoke, eyes like banked coals.

"You are as observant as he said you were," he said thoughtfully, as though speaking to himself. He blinked and addressed Holmes properly. "Yes, there is a specific reason this man was hired. I do not think revealing that reason is particularly relevant to your mission."

Holmes gave a derisive snort. "As I am the detective surely that is for me to decide. And you forget that I have not yet agreed to take your case. Thus my ‘mission’, as yet, is undetermined. But if you should like me to weigh the merits of your story you might start by telling me the truth.” He glanced at Jackson again, “I know of few men who when hounded by a murderer would come to my door in the dead of night having first taken such fastidious care of their appearance.”

Jackson didn't flush; if anything he become paler, his eyes hard as flint. After a moment he sneered, lip curling back against glittering white teeth. "My appearance is hardly important. A man is going to try to take my life, Mr. Holmes. Are you going to do anything about that?"

"Nothing is unimportant," Holmes told him, "and there is nothing I can do for any potential client who refuses to be honest with me." There were many things he could add to this. He could explain himself, lay out his reasoning like clothes on a washing line. He could tell the doctor why his secrecy was both detrimental and unwelcome, and reveal the myriad ways his brief story did not add up with Holmes' observations. But he did not. He had stated the crux of the matter; everything else was minutia. If Jackson wanted to value his secrets over his life, that was his own choice. Holmes did not like dealing with dishonest people anyway.

It made his job harder.

Jackson clenched his jaw for a moment, finally letting go of his ire in a long hissing breath that reminded Holmes of the sea.

"Tell me, Mister Holmes, do you believe in the supernatural?" The question was asked with all due respect, but the doctor’s tone made it plain what answer he expected.

Holmes gave a small huff of almost laughter. "I do not discount the possibility, but thus far I have seen no evidence of its existence."

"You handled the Blackwood case excellently," Jackson remarked, stretching long arms over his head. "Your refusal to believe in his magic tricks saved parliament." He leaned back in the armchair and for a moment Holmes was struck by an inexplicable feeling of danger; the same kind felt by a doe a split second before it locked eyes with a hungry wolf. "You had a partner then, didn't you? A shame. I read his obituary. Explosion at the docks..."

Whatever Holmes had been expecting Jackson to say, it certainly wasn’t that. But he kept his face neutral and gave nothing away. "I'm sorry I cannot be of assistance to you, doctor. I do hope your situation resolves itself in your favor. Goodnight."

"He was my colleague as well as yours," Jackson said, ignoring the dismissal. "He was how I knew of you. I lost a good friend that night."

Holmes stiffened, feeling like a steel glove wrapping around his heart and he thought he would very much like to hit the man. "I do not believe there is much left for us to discuss." He turned purposefully away, and his hands did not clench at his sides because he was a remarkably gifted actor.

"He believed," the doctor continued, goading. "Because he knew the truth, because he had seen things most men do not. I trusted him with that knowledge. It would seem that he kept his promise, and told you nothing."

Holmes' patience had long worn thin and was now verging on nonexistent. He turned again, movement too quick to be born of anything but the deepest anger. "If you have something you would like to tell me, I suggest you do away with the theatrics and do so."

"You won't believe me," Jackson said with amused certainty, but continued anyway. "I am not technically alive."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "You are remarkably lively for a corpse."

"Yes well, vampires usually are," Jackson replied with a shallow grin.

Holmes studied him for a quiet moment. "Well," he said finally with stoic reason, "if you are already dead then there is hardly any reason to fear a man coming to kill you.”

Jackson’s smile dropped, replaced by subtle annoyance. "I can be made to be much more dead than I am now. Surely you have heard of the ways to kill a vampire."

"I admit I've never given the subject a great deal of study."

"Most of us do not, when we are mortal," Jackson said with a huff. "I do hope you understand that I tell you this in confidence, and I expect secrecy from you."

"That depends entirely upon your own actions. If your affliction comes with the prerequisite taste for human blood, I do not see how I can."

"I thought you didn't believe in such things," Jackson mocked.

"I don't, but it is obvious you do. Should such a belief lead you to criminal or dangerous actions which put either yourself or those around you in peril, it would be my moral obligation to stand in your way. Any confidence you believe we have would be null."

"And what would you do if confronted with proof of the matter?"

"That would depend on what proof was presented, but now it is my turn to ask a question: what is it you expect me to do about the person who is after you? If your fantastical claims are true this individual may have very valid reasons for wanting you back in your grave, the least of which is that it is undeniably where you belong. Such actions might not even be criminal; I do not know that England's laws against murder apply to persons already dead."

Jackson’s eyes narrowed. "I expect you to find evidence that this man is indeed out for my life. I do not care if you agree with his motivations. But if it eases your conscience, I haven't killed while feeding in half a century."

Holmes ignored the madman’s rambling. "Do you have reason to believe this man thinks you are a vampire?"

"I am certain he does, as the man who hired him knows what I am."

"And how do you suppose he will attempt to dispatch you?" Everything about the doctor rubbed him the wrong way, from his obvious madness to his insufferable belief Holmes owed him something.

"Likely by finding my resting place and stabbing me.” He cocked his head, regarding Holmes at an angle. “You don't believe I am what I say I am," he said. "I could prove it all to you, quite easily too."

Cards on the table then. "It is obvious _you_ believe it; all evidence points to that quite strongly. You have not ventured out in the sun in a long while. Your pocket watch is a relic; nearly a hundred years old- so by the way are your cuff links. Your clothes come from a shop in Lower Kingston I know happens to make house calls, and who's proprietor is somewhat famous for keeping irregular hours. You wear riding gloves, though you do not ride. However, were you caught outside in the daylight, they would offer protection from the sun, as would the cowl that has been sewn into the lining of your coat. Furthermore, while you are a man to whom lies come easily you are not lying now; you believe what you say. That combined with some other minor mysteries about you certainly paint you as a character of some interest. But I am a man who values evidence over words. However easily you might prove such a claim, the fact as it stands is that thus far you have chosen not to. I think you would agree in that light I have no _reason_ to believe you."

Jackson smiled slightly. "This is more like what I expected. Very well, I shall prove it to you then. What piece of evidence would you find most convincing? The temperature and texture of my skin, perhaps?" He pulled off his gloves and held out a thin, white hand.

Holmes calculated the possibility of attack and - despite having every reason to believe the man before him was unstable to a breathtaking degree - concluded that it was quite low. He stepped forward and took the proffered hand.

It was like shaking hands with a corpse (and corpses were a subject Holmes had some experience with). The skin was marble smooth, strangely hard, and very cold. Jackson wrapped his hand around Holmes' and there was no give to the muscle, no pliancy to his skin. Holmes had the thought that Jackson could break his hand with extraordinary ease if he wished to. 

“Fascinating,” Holmes murmured, as Jackson withdrew his hand.

"That's not enough for you, is it?"

"It certainly makes your situation more compelling," Holmes replied. But there were many scientifically acceptable reasons for cold hands. Poor circulation, nerves, consumption...

Of far more interest to him was the fact that he had detected no pulse, no proof that any life flowed through the doctor’s cold limbs.

There were of course at least half a dozen ways a man might hide his pulse, at least for a short while. Three of them would require the doctor to be unconscious. Of those remaining the first involved meditation and the effect was temporary; it certainly would not last through the lengthy conversation they’d had. The second required an extensive knowledge of South American plants and would have left the pupils dilated, which they were not. The third would be achieved through the use of makeup and a thin prosthetic covering the wrist, but there had been none.

Jackson grinned widely as he watched Holmes think, enough that the glint of fangs became visible behind his pale lips. "I've got the teeth, though I suppose you would say I could be using a prosthetic, yes?"

"May I?" Holmes asked, stepping forward to examine the doctor’s canines.

Jackson pulled his head back in surprise, but recovered quickly enough. "Of course," he acquiesced, baring his teeth once more. He looked predatory, less than human and Holmes had to admit he was becoming intrigued. He leaned in, examining the gleaming white fangs.

"Hmmm...particularly long cuspids are a genetic anomaly, affecting less than six percent of the population; I once wrote a monograph on the subject of teeth and the use of dental imprints in the investigation of crime. Yours however appear quite sharp. Naturally so; I can detect no groove upon the enamel that would indicate filing."

"Unnaturally so,” Jackson corrected once Holmes had moved back. “And so, you are out of scientific answers. That leaves only the supernatural as an explanation. If you choose to believe, that is."

"It narrows the field of scientific explanation; it does not dismiss it. That I cannot explain a scientific fact does not mean it is supernatural. However, you are making a compelling case for the later. What else do you have?"

“Is there anything you wouldn’t mind me breaking?” he asked, glancing around the sitting room.

Holmes ignored him in favor of pursing his own line of questioning. “Judging by your attire and schedule, you believe sunlight to be harmful to you, yes?"

"Quite, though less than it was initially. I can tolerate twilight and the early morning, but even if it were less painful, the urge to sleep is more than enough motivation to keep me away from the day."

"Photosensitivity is a rare but documented condition; it is often combined - and even the cause of - sleep disorders." He was not actively trying to disprove Watson's claim; not exactly. He was simply applying what he knew of science to what he observed before him and comparing the results. "You say you feast on blood?" he reached into the pocket of his robe and withdrew a magnifying glass, examining each of Jackson’s fingernails in turn. "What of other food and drink? And what of bodily fluids?" His movements became more animated as he spoke, mind latching onto the mystery before him with singular focus.

"I am not a museum specimen," Jackson said with a huff, though he didn’t pull his hand away. “And yes, I must drink blood regularly. I won't die without, not for months- possibly years - but the hunger becomes overwhelming. That can be quite dangerous, and I prefer to keep such urges in check. As for everything else, there is nothing. Just blood. I cannot eat food or drink."

Holmes ignored the first comment. One did not present themselves as a supernatural being to a man of science, challenge them on the point and expect anything less than a thorough examination. "And your bowls do not empty? Then where does the blood go?"

Jackson shrugged a bit helplessly. "There are things even we do not know about ourselves. As a doctor myself, I have studied my own physiology. Without an autopsy, I can only presume that my digestive system has changed dramatically from its original form in order to process the blood I consume. It is apparently highly efficient, as no waste products are formed."

There were too many questions and fallacies of logic in regards to anatomy for Holmes to tackle there, so he put it aside for the moment and continued. "You say your heart does not beat; why then does the blood not settle in your hands and feet? How does it circulate through your body with nothing to pump it through?"

"I perhaps exaggerated on that note," he admitted. "I do have a pulse, but it is extremely slow, enough that it is clinically undetectable. I did spend a few evenings about fifty years ago counting my pulse at rest and during activity. It was, on the whole, terrifically boring."

"Mmmm," Holmes said, and the next moment had his ear pressed to the doctor’s chest, listening for the beat of his heart. He thought he would like to bring Jackson upstairs, where he was better equipped to examine him...

Jackson stopped breathing. There was no inhale - as a man might do before holding his breath - he simply quit, and did not start again. It took nearly a full minute for his heart to let out a slow, ponderous beat.

"Your heart _does_ beat,” Holmes commented, “though too slowly to sustain a human; certainly not quick enough to facilitate the movement of blood through your limbs. Does piercing your heart cause true death?"

Their proximity had been extremely close for the past minute, and so it took less than a blink of an eye for Jackson to take Holmes' chin in his hand, his cold grip firm and immovable.

"I don't trust you yet."

Holmes cocked an eyebrow. "Do you often reveal yourself to people you don't trust? A dangerous habit." He shrugged. "The question was purely one of scientific inquiry. Famous literature and general consensus say vampires are undead; their hearts do not beat. And yet they also maintain that one of the only ways to kill them is to pierce them through the heart. But that is contradictory; if the hearts do not beat, then destroying it should hardly matter. Yours however does, implying the opposite. You are alive, in a fashion. Therefore, it follows your heart would be as vital to your continued existence as any man."

Jackson studied him, Holmes' chin still clutched in an ice-cold hand. The predatory gleam had returned to his eyes. "You've intrigued me up to this point as the man who caused my good friend's death,” the doctor said, voice low and lethal. “But we are far, far from the subject at hand. There is a man who has been sent to kill me. Will you help me find evidence against him, so that I may set the proper authorities on him?"

Holmes stepped back, away from the doctor’s cold reach. "No."

The room seemed to grow colder by degrees, a chill seeping in through the walls; Holmes could see the breath before his face. It seemed a matter of scientific importance that he note the fact he could not see Jackson's.

"No?” Jackson asked, a dangerous timbre to the word. “Why not? By your own definition I am alive in some way or another, and a man plans to murder me. Is it not justice to aid in his capture?"

Holmes lifted his chin, "Perhaps, but that is not why you are here. Oh, I've no doubt someone is after you, but that is not the chief reason you have sought me out, nor revealed yourself to me. I have already told you I do not take cases in which my clients are not completely honest with me; it is entirely too easy to end up on the wrong side of morality if I do."

He was intrigued, of course he was. Here was a puzzle unlike any he had ever encountered. Jackson was a dangerous mystery, and both those things tempted Holmes sorely. But fascinated as he was, the central fact remained: Jackson was lying to him.

Jackson pulled himself up tall, glaring at Holmes for a long moment, dark shadows flickering through his eyes.

"My friend is dead, Mister Holmes. He was the only one I have trusted with my secrets in a very long time. Yet, as loyal as he was to me, he held you in even higher regard - enough that he died for you. To lose an ally is a great inconvenience. But to lose a friend..."

And now, finally, things became clear. "Are you here to kill me, then?" he asked calmly.

Jackson smiled coldly, regarding him from head to toe. "You're far more afraid of that possibility than you let on," he challenged.

It was Holmes' turn to smile, though it was an empty thing, devoid of mirth. "Not so much as you might think. If you knew our friend so well as you claim then you know how well he could keep a secret. I know it too; he kept many of mine. You speak as though he and I were nothing more than colleagues." Holmes stepped up to Jackson again and pulled a chain from around his neck; at the end was a simple silver band, engraved with ivy leaves. 

"He was not my ally, doctor, but my lover; the only reason I did not follow him to the grave was a promise he extracted from me some time ago. I have lived for that promise, and will continue to do so. But the day he died-"

The day he died the world turned grey.

Jackson stared at the ring for a long time in silence. When he finally spoke his voice was softer, the anger dissipated. "He was... very good at keeping secrets, it would seem...” he tore his eyes away from the ring at last, regarding Holmes with a hard, shrewd gaze. "What promise did you give him? What did he make you swear to?"

Holmes stowed the ring once more beneath his shirt, next to his heart. "He knew the risks inherent in our work; we both did. We each of us escaped death more times than providence should allow. He made me swear to him if he died - however it happened - that I would continue without him. Both my life and my work. I agreed, because it meant a great deal to him that I should.”

In that respect, Holmes had put another's happiness above his own. Completely, and for the rest of his life.

"A lifetime can be a very long thing," Jackson said slowly. "You are lucky yours will have an end, some day." He stepped away from Holmes then, frowning deeply. "But not today. I won't make you break your promise to our mutual friend."

"Well, if you hold his death against me then find comfort in knowing my days since have been their own hell, and will continue to be so until I am doubtlessly murdered by someone seeking a less righteous brand of vengeance than yourself."

"So fatalistic," Jackson said mockingly. He turned to the door, and the tense energy in the space between them drained away, taking with it the chill that had permeated the air. He glanced over his shoulder to regard Holmes from the tip of his nose. “Let us see how long you can keep your promise to him.”

Holmes didn’t react to that; he simply turned away and headed for the stairs. He didn’t want or require Jackson’s empathy or understanding, and he didn’t care what this man - creature - thought of him or his human drama. He could show himself out once he was finished sporting.

Jackson, for his part, seemed finished as well. He donned his hat and gloves, and spoke only after reaching the front door.

"Till we meet again." He tipped his hat politely, a tint of mockery underscoring the gesture.

Holmes harrumphed at him as he left and didn’t sleep that night, which was unfortunate. Instead he spent a good deal of time thinking about the past, which was also unfortunate. Such morose thoughts tended to have a damaging effect on his psyche.

William Stamford had been dead for six months, and Holmes blamed himself every single day. He hardly needed a ghoul coming to his door to remind him.

1\. All dates redacted by order of the Diogenes Society


	2. Death At Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for: dead bodies, blood

_"In reading my memoirs it may seem as though Holmes and I had ever been friends; two men sharing mutual admiration, almost immediately drawn into each other's confidence. I admit this was precisely the impression I wished to convey, and furthermore that it is a blatant falsehood. In truth, Holmes and I were at odds from the very beginning, regarding each other more as adversaries than allies. And yet, our shared loyalty to a dear friend led us to form an uneasy sort of truce, one that became the foundation of one of the greatest stories the world would never know."_

  
  


Chapter 2: Death At Dawn

Sunlight had only just cracked the edge of the slate colored horizon when Holmes slipped into an uneasy slumber, crumpled like discarded laundry at the edge of the settee. But rest was as fleeting as every other good thing in the world and barely an hour passed before he was roused by another flurry of pounding on the door.

He stood unsteadily, room swaying like the bow of a great ship and he anchored himself against the wall for a moment before wrenching open the door with a bleary-eyed grunt.

"Holmes," said an exasperated and much harangued Inspector Lestrade, talking already before the door was full open. "Sorry to bother you so early, but I -" he stopped as he took in Holmes' haggard appearance, voice dropping to a whisper. "Good Lord! Are you alright?"

"You have a case for me," Holmes said impatiently, ignoring the question as always.

"Yes," Lestrade nodded, giving Holmes a sideways look. "It's the body. We can't figure out how on earth it got there. We haven't even managed to get it _down_ yet."

His eyes sparked a bit. Yes, he had been crushed by Stamford's death, and the guilt that came packaged with it haunted his every waking moment. But he had promised to live, and to work, and to soldier on. And he was still Sherlock Holmes. "Where is it?"

"The roof of Saint Cyprian's Church, right here in Marylebone," Lestrade said. "No one's got a damn idea how it got up there. It's a gentleman, that's about all we can tell."

"Just around the corner, eh? Qu'elle coincidence.” He turned and arrowed toward the bedroom, talking as he went. “And a church you say? When was the body discovered?"

"Just at dawn," Lestrade called back. He pulled out a battered notebook, flipping through the pages with one thick finger. "By one of the curates. They noticed something dark on the roof in the wee hours of the morning. Couldn't make it out in the fog, and by the time it’d burned off enough to tell what she was lookin’ at half the street had noticed too. Been quite a spectacle; we're having a damn hard time keeping people away."

"Of course!" Holmes emerged from the bedroom in his usual fashion of haphazard dress, waistcoat askew and cuffs undone. Lestrade looked him over once more and seemed about to speak but Holmes gave him no chance, sweeping out of the room with far more vigor than he felt.

***

Saint Cyprian was small parish church of red brick with a deeply sloping roof set high above the street. Despite the hour a crowd had already gathered, necks craned to catch a glimpse of the body that could be seen crumpled against the grey slabbed roofing tiles. Out in the street harried looking officers bustled to and fro, futilely trying to disperse the curious onlookers.

As Holmes approached, another Inspector by the name of Gregson broke away from the throng and stepped over to him.

"Now Mr. Holmes, you know Lestrade and I are quite capable of handling any case... but the sensational aspect... we thought it best for the press if you were called in. Appearances you know."

"Hmmm," Holmes replied dismissively, brushing Gregson aside and peering up at the corpse. "What is being done to retrieve it?"

"We've called in the firemen; they've got ladders long enough to reach the first level of the roof. The larger problem is getting the body down without anyone falling in the process. Damn rain, the tiles are probably slick up there." There had been a brief but heavy storm during the night, the street still pocketed with dirtied puddles of water.

"I'll need to examine the body before it's moved."

"What!?" Gregson looked from Holmes to the roof and back again. "Are you mad? You'll fall and break your damn neck! I'll be blamed for killing Sherlock Holmes! Absolutely not."

Holmes looked at him blandly, "No one is responsible for my neck but myself, and if you have called me here then you ought to give me something to do, else I might as well go back to bed."

"You can inspect the body when it's been brought down," Gregson bristled. "No one in their right mind expects you to go gallivanting across the rooftops."

As they spoke Lestrade hurried over, a brief look of consternation crossing his face as he noted Gregson's dour expression, and Holmes’ utter lack of any expression at all. “What’s going on?” he asked, glancing between them.

"Your pet lunatic wants to climb up to the roof like a monkey and gawk at the body,” Gregson snapped.

Holmes was in no mood for this at all, even less so than usual. "I am not a show pony,” he snipped crisply, “and I will not stand uselessly about for the sake of onlookers when a crime has been committed; that is what you have officers for." He turned on his heel and nodded to Lestrade. "Do feel free to contact me when you have something for me to _do_.”

"Holmes-" Lestrade stepped away from Gregson, pulling Holmes aside with a hand on his arm. "Is it necessary?" he asked, voice lowered conspiratorially. "Do you think you'll gain evidence from going up there right now that can't be found on the body later?"

Holmes ground his teeth at the stupidity of the question. "I need to see the _crime scene_ , Lestrade. A body tells me only part of the story."

"How do you expect to get up there?"

"Gregson informs me the fire department is on its way to retrieve the body. They can surely wait the span of a minute or five."

Lestrade rolled his hat about on his head, clearly debating the pros and cons of letting England’s foremost detective smash his head open on the cobblestones. Finally he acquiesced with a shrug of his burly shoulders. “Well, it’s your own neck after all.”

“That’s the spirit, Inspector,” Holmes said, clapping him on the back with more force than strictly necessary.

The firemen arrived just as Holmes finished his inspection of the rain-soddened ground around the church's foundation and busied themselves setting up the first of two ladders. Large and sturdy, it reached up to the first story, braced against the rough bricks. Once in place they carried up the second, smaller ladder and set it carefully along the edge of the clerestory. One of the members of the fire brigade came over to Holmes, polished domed helmet held beneath the crook of his arm.

"I've heard you'd like to go up first," the man said.

"Indeed. I must examine the rooftop before your men bring down the corpse."

"Can't say I like the idea. I'll be sending two men up with you, to catch you before you break your neck when you slip off that wet slate."

Holmes waved him off and took to the ladder to do his job.

It was a long way up, but the firemen held the ladder secure at the bottom and Holmes made the journey to the top without incident. The roof on that part of the building was slippery, but he had enough purchase to make his way across to the second ladder. There things got a bit tricky, for the roof itself was slick and steeply sloped. He climbed carefully, reached the last rung of the ladder and there could go no further, the body still beyond his reach. It lay at the very top of the roof, twisted along the ridge and facing away from him. He could see only the faded brown waistcoat of the man's torso.

He braced his hands on the slick tiles and hauled himself up the last few feet onto the roof, leaving the ladder behind. Below him the firemen bellowed in dismay, cursing him for a madman while the crowd gasped in horrified delight. They might yet see a man fall to his death this morning, how thrilling!

He ignored the spectators and got to work. The man had been dead some hours already, skin pale and waxy, rigor mortis beginning to stiffen the limbs. The body was dry, but the roof beneath it wet. He turned the man’s head to see his face and recoiled in mild surprise.

The man’s features were twisted in horror, frozen in eternal shock and between the teeth of his gaping mouth something protruded. Holmes removed it, unsurprised to find a crucifix of fine silver, encrusted with a single small jewel and fastened round the man’s neck by a delicate chain.

Holmes then examined the neck, hands and feet, a crease forming between his brows. He checked the bottom of the man’s shoes, found something of interest and pressed it to his tongue before turning his head and spitting.

He sighed and climbed down, instructing the firemen to handle the body with care.

Perhaps the most surprising thing about the whole business was how unsurprised he was.

They pulled the body down as carefully as could be managed and laid it on a stretcher. Lestrade ordered everyone away then, giving Holmes a chance to conclude his examination without having to cling perilously to a rooftop.

"What have you found?" the inspector asked, hovering. "How the devil did he get up there?"

"He was moved there after his death, of course." Holmes looked the body over, searching. There wasn’t a gun to be found but he wore an ammunition belt at his waist. Holmes opened one of the pouches and emptied it, rolling the small, shiny bullets about in his palm.

"Are those silver?" Lestrade asked incredulously, peering over Holmes' shoulder.

"Yes," Holmes answered, snapping the pouch closed again. "Were the church doors locked last night?"

“I don’t know, I’ll have to check with the vicar.”

Holmes stared at him expectantly until Lestrade moved off to find someone to ask. Then he rifled quickly through the man’s pockets, finding exactly what he expected to. On the whole, it was almost criminally cliché.

"Didn't need my help after all, eh doctor?" he muttered under his breath.

Of course, some other explanation was possible. But that would be coincidence of the highest order and while Holmes certainly believed in coincidence, he didn’t trust it.

“Vicar says the doors were locked tight as a drum last night,” Lestrade said, puffing over again. He looked around at the crowd still milling about and nodded toward the corpse. "Shall we get him to the morgue now?"

"Yes, I've finished with him." Holmes stood, hands firmly in his pockets as he watched Lestrade signal to a pair of constables to take the dead man away.

“Any ideas?” the Inspector asked him, eyeing the roof again. Holmes replied “Several,” then left, leaving Lestrade staring after him, mouth opening and closing in helpless frustration.

He followed his feet back to Baker Street but did not go inside; he already knew what he would find there. Instead he walked round to the side alley by the coal shed, kneeling with one knee pressed hard into the dirt. He looked, he observed, he was satisfied. That done he made a similar examination of the ground beneath his parlor window and, finding all as he expected it to be, left.

Holmes next went in search of the elusive Doctor Jackson.

***

It was well after dark when he knocked on the door of an inconspicuous house on a quiet street near Canvendish Square that doubled as an after-hours clinic and surgery. After a long stretch of silence the door opened, and the doctor smiled at him very wide.

"Are you here to set up an appointment?" he asked with the most flawless and insincere politeness.

Holmes took it in stride. "Well, we now know the power of faith has no dominion over you, but what of gravity? Can you fly, or is there a far more mundane reason the man's body was laying atop the church roof?"

Impossibly, Jackson's smile grew wider, white fangs glinting at the edges of his pale lips. "Come in," he said, moving aside and holding open the door.

Perhaps it was foolish of him, but Holmes followed the doctor inside. He'd done a great number of foolish things in his life already; there was hardly a good reason to stop now.

The door clicked shut behind him and Jackson led them into a comfortable exam room with a low bed, a desk and two agreeable looking chairs.

"Please, sit," he said, gesturing to the chairs. "Would you like tea?"

"No." Holmes sat, and didn’t miss the predatory grace of the doctor's movements. Lithe and lethal, like a tiger. He wondered how anyone could mistake him for anything but an apex predator. But perhaps he wasn't bothering to hide it, tonight. No genial, mild-mannered doctor here. No cane he didn't need, facilitating a limp he didn't have, the result of a wound that didn't exist anymore.

"I take it you heard about the church," Jackson said conversationally, sitting down behind his desk. He looked at Holmes carefully, reading Holmes in exactly the same manner as Holmes read him.

"You knew I would," Holmes replied, not bothering to hide anything. "I take it that was the fellow whose pretense brought you to my door?"

"He was, yes.”

“An interesting case,” Holmes remarked with contemplative slowness and, receiving no response, continued blithely on, “After death the blood should have settled in the hands and feet, making them swollen and purple; it had not. The body had been exsanguinated, yet no blood could be found at the scene. There were however two puncture marks in his neck.” He regarded the doctor with a leveled gaze. “I believe you said you hadn’t killed while feeding in fifty years.”

A shadow shifted over the doctor’s face. “I _didn’t_ kill while feeding, I killed because he gave me no choice; I simply didn't let the blood go to waste."

Holmes said nothing, still waiting, dissecting the doctor with his eyes and obviously finding him lacking.

Jackson sighed, a startlingly human gesture. "What proof can I offer that my words are true?"

"You might start by telling me your real name," Holmes said flatly.

Surprisingly, that made him laugh out loud and for a moment he looked very human indeed. "Very well," he said with a nod, "It's Watson- Doctor John Watson. And yes, I do hold a valid medical license."

"Of course you do."

"As for the dead man, he sealed his fate when he followed me to your flat last night."

“I know,” Holmes replied, and a quirk of the doctor’s eyebrow was all that gave away his surprise.

“You know?”

“Of course. You came to see me shortly after the storm - so did he. There were boot prints under my window and on the side of the house by the coal shed.”

“At the risk of discrediting my own story, those could have been made by anyone,” Watson countered.

“True, but they were not. They were made by a man who wore military boots with the heels worn down and a large crack in the leather sole. I often smoke in my parlor and dispose of the ash out the window; he had a bit of tobacco stuck to the bottom of his left boot.”

A small smile – perhaps even a genuine one – pushed at the corner of the doctor’s mouth. “That is quite remarkable,” he said, the barest hint of admiration in his voice.

Holmes waved the comment aside. He was here for a reason. “I also assume his corpse was a message for your enemies. The clergy, perhaps? A man who wears worn out boots through the rain wears them because he has no alternative- he certainly couldn't afford such an expensive crucifix, nor a pouch full of silver bullets. Taken together with the contents of his pockets- wooden stake, bible, garlic - it is clear he was sponsored by someone of both faith and means. That’s why the church roof, isn’t it? And the cross between his teeth. You were sending them a message.”

To his credit, Watson didn't bother with prevarication. "I told you someone had hired him to kill me - and he did try. Fired two shots at me in fact, hit me once.”

“There were traces of gunpowder on his hands," Holmes agreed. “What did you do with the weapon?”

Watson opened a desk drawer and withdrew an old army pistol, tossing it over with careless grace. “It’s loaded with silver; I thought it better if I hung onto it.”

Holmes caught it easily and checked the chambers. True enough, two bullets were missing. Holmes looked him over with a practiced eye. “And silver is harmful? You seem no worse for the wear.”

He held up a pale hand for inspection; a reddened mark like a burn arced across his palm. "From his crucifix," he explained. "And the bullet struck my arm. Painful, but I've had the day to heal and he missed my heart. Terrible aim, honestly."

"Well, I might ask that you be more discreet in your disposal next time, should circumstance force your hand again."

“You don’t approve of my methods?” Watson asked mildly.

Holmes scoffed. There were surely things Watson cared about less than Holmes' approval, but the list was undoubtedly a short one. "It hardly matters. I am here to ask you what you expect me to tell the police."

The doctor shrugged. "You can tell them whatever you like. I killed a man in self-defense, Mister Holmes; I won’t apologize for that. Then I made use of the corpse, that's all. They got the message; I should be safe for another decade at least.”

“Provided no one else comes looking for you,” Holmes pointed out.

“If they do, I will deal with them.”

Holmes stood, regarding Watson for a searching moment. "Vigilante justice is a dangerous game, doctor. I hope for the sake of more than just ourselves that Stamford was not wrong about you, and I am not wrong about him." Then he showed himself to the door.

Watson stood as well, moved to action at the mention of Stamford's name. "I did what I had to do to keep us both safe; knowing I had been to see you would have made you a person of interest to the church. That could have been dangerous for _you_.”

Holmes looked back at him with genuine curiosity, “Why would you care?” and Watson answered instantly, “Because Stamford cared.”

With no small amount of vexation, Holmes discovered he had nothing at all to say to that.


	3. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for: more dead bodies (it's a theme), some blood and gore

Chapter 3: Strange Bedfellows   


  
  


The dead man’s name was Nelson Langley, a former sergeant in her majesty’s army. Whilst overseas he had suffered from a nervous breakdown that affected his mind and was summarily discharged, having been deemed unfit for service.

He was an utter lunatic. Among the patrons of Saint Cyprian’s he was known as an impulsive and anxious man, easily disturbed, with the singular habit of cornering unwary parishioners and regaling them with horrific stories of his time in the war. It was no secret the man was of unsound mind and requested a private meeting of confession with the vicar nearly every day.

Among his more familiar acquaintances it began to be rumored the poor soul had climbed up the church roof himself in a fit of madness, and met his end by his own unfortunate hand.

The papers were thrown into a frenzy. For days the headlines were printed in blood, entire pages devoted to what they had affectionately nicknamed "The Marylebone Vampire" and for a time all London was abuzz with wild speculation. But the faster news traveled the quicker it passed, and after all, there was only so much sport to be had over a single murder. Eventually the papers moved on to other shocking delights, the rumors died down, and when people walked the streets at night they stared at their feet again, and not the rooftops.

For his part Holmes turned over as much information about Watson as he dared. The culprit, he assured Lestrade with unimpeachable conviction, was a blond man of indeterminate age and uncommon strength, with a military background and a profound dislike of the church who nonetheless had likely been acting out of self-defense. No false words passed Holmes’ lips. His lies were those of omission, staggering in their scope.

But there was nothing else to be done.

With little to guide them, the Yard’s trail soon went cold.

Holmes did not return to Watson’s practice.

It wasn’t that he wasn't interested - fascinated even. But there was something about Watson that unsettled him, something beyond the obvious fact that the man shouldn't exist. Oh, their paths would likely cross again; Holmes fully admitted his inability to turn away from a mystery. But this mystery in particular _bothered_ him, beyond even all the very obvious and logical reasons why he should be bothered. He wanted to think on that. He wanted to _understand._ Knowledge was his weapon of choice, and he knew better than to meet an adversary empty handed. He needed facts, and he did not entirely trust Doctor Watson to provide them.

Holmes spent the entirety of the following week ensconced in the occult section of London’s sprawling lending library at Saint James, shadows changing their daily position as the sun moved in lazy arcs over the city. It was an area of study he fully admitted ignorance of; it had never been topical, before. When evil was done it was done by men with earthly motivations: mysticism did not figure into the worldview of Sherlock Holmes.

Until now.

Through the accumulation of days he became a figure of both curiosity and derision at the library, patrons stealing glances from the corner of their eye, others openly staring as he poured over texts from around the world written in half a dozen languages. Fortunately Holmes had never found the pursuit of knowledge to be an embarrassment, however unseemly, impolitic or outright dangerous it might be and thus was wholly unconcerned with other’s opinions on the matter.

Happily, there was a large amount of information to be found on vampires. Less inspiringly, most of it appeared to be complete rubbish. Many of the older legends clashed badly with what his own experience had shown him. Crosses, garlic, running water- all things that reportedly would either repel or delay a vampire and all of which Holmes knew to be malarkey - if Watson was indeed a "vampire".

Other things however seemed to hold a kernel of truth: aversion to light and silver, unnatural strength, the need to drink blood. He suspected driving a wooden stake through one’s heart _would_ kill it, if for no other reason than Watson had not wanted to answer that particular question when it was posed to him.

The idea of the undead and creatures rising from their graves he dismissed outright. Watson’s heart _did_ beat, albeit slowly. He had to feed- although rarely- and from an extremely selective diet. What Holmes observed spoke toward natural predator behaviors, though acutely augmented. Speed, strength, attractiveness. Did not a number of predators lure their prey in with bright colors, sweet smells and deadly promises? It was not so different.

He aged as slowly as his heart beat; which science would posit there being a correlation. The affliction, curse - whatever one called it, not causing death but rather slowing it, reducing the natural wear on mortal flesh to a fraction of its usual pace. The average human heart beat eighty times a minute. Watson’s beat only once. One heartbeat per minute. One minute per day...how long before that golden hair finally turned grey? Did they ever live to see themselves grow old, or were they dispatched before then?

Well, it was all conjecture anyway. Still, it was a working theory that didn't rely on magically animated corpses, so there was that.

  
  


***

Two weeks after they pulled Langley’s body off the church roof Holmes found himself in a dark alley thick with the smell of death, kneeling behind bins overflowing with decay and waiting impatiently for a nervous constable to bring over a lamp, that he might better examine the scene. A bloated half-moon hung in the sky like a distended stomach, pale light filtering down through layers of soot and grime, illuminating nothing.

Finally, a callow-faced youth barely out of childhood stepped gingerly into the gaping maw of the alley, lamp held before him like a paltry shield. 

"Sir, I don't like this at all..."

"When I believe your opinion to be crucial to the investigation, I shall ask you for it," Holmes bit out, motioning him over with an impatiently flapping hand. The boy looked ridiculous in his constable's uniform, jacket and trousers both too long, helmet swallowing his head like a black-jawed beast. _Too young for this work_ Holmes thought to himself, but what was the alternative? He wasn't too young to starve to death in the street for want of employment, after all.

The lad took four steps into the shadows, shone the lantern around in an arc, and turned green. Holmes swooped in and snatched the light away, gauging the boy to be only moments away from parting with his last meal. “Go,” he said gruffly, “You are of no use to me here.”

The young man nodded in relief, hand over his mouth and made a less than dignified retreat, barely making it to the street before doubling over and retching loudly into the gutter. Holmes spared him no attention, turning back to the gruesome scene.

The body lay face down on the cobblestones, one arm outstretched toward the street in a futile plea for deliverance. The brick walls of the narrow alley were stained with arterial spray, blood that had appeared black in the moonlight now a deep rust color in the flickering light of the oil lamp. Beneath the dead man the sticky remains of a puddle seeped and trickled its way through the cobbles toward the main road, filling Holmes' nose with the coppery scent of blood. A crude chalk circle had been drawn around the body, criss-crossed with strange symbols and lines. It was only partially intact, the man’s blood spilling over and obscuring the markings. Next to him lay three dried sprigs of sage.

He turned the body to its front, pulled the man’s collar aside. Just above the collarbone two ragged holes stood out against the bone white column of his neck, the shirt beneath dyed half red. Like Langley, the man had been drained, but the blood that might have been drunk instead painted the walls and ground.

This was not a feeding: it was simply murder.

A brief search of the alley turned over a broken oil lamp and a clump of half burnt cedar. The body itself retained all personal affects including money, negating the possibility of it being a mugging gone wrong.

No, this man had not been killed for any material benefit.

He left the alley some minutes later and ran into Lestrade’s hard gaze, the small man’s face pulled into a deep-furrowed frown.

“Well?” he asked impatiently.

“Well,” Holmes parroted, unaffected.

“It’s the same as Langley, right?” Holmes did not stop for him and so Lestrade was obliged to follow after, still talking. “A body drained of blood with two holes in his neck. Some madman’s running through London thinking he’s a bloody vampire and now he’s killed again. It’s the same bloke, ain’t it?”

“No,” Holmes answered decisively, “but we are meant to think it is.”

Lestrade stared at him doubtfully. “Are you saying we’ve got a copycat killer?”

“I am saying the man who killed Langley and the man who murdered this fellow are not the same.” He watched as two ash-faced constables trudged by, bloodless body carried between them, covered with sackcloth. Away a pace the young constable from the alley stood leaning heavily against the mariah, a sheen of sweat adorning his brow like a benediction. “Who is the coroner on shift tonight?” Holmes asked.

“New bloke, don’t recall his name.”

Holmes eyed Lestrade with faint amusement, condescension crimping the corners of his mouth. No words were necessary; even Lestrade could tell what he was thinking.

“He was only hired two nights ago,” the inspector said defensively and Holmes' amusement grew, some inimical mirth winding it's way through his dark eyes.

“Of course,” he replied magnanimously. Then, “I shall need to speak with him.”

“What for?” Lestrade asked and Holmes closed his eyes against the blinding stupidity of the question.

”I’m in need of a someone to split the rent and was hoping he could go halves with me on the rooms. What do you _think_ , Lestrade? I need to speak to him about the corpse!”

Lestrade bristled like a bulldog, shoulders hunching up beneath his uniform. “The man’s only just started, it’s hard enough finding a competent sawbones willing to work the night shift for Yard pay; I’m not about to let you barge in and scare him off without a damn good reason. What it is you think he can tell you that you can’t get lookin’ at the body?”

Holmes sighed loudly at the fools the world insisted he suffer. “Chiefly, the contents of his stomach.”

Lestrade stopped in his tracks like he'd been grabbed, staring at Holmes' swiftly retreating back. “What’s the _hell’s_ that to do with anything?” he demanded, incredulity punching the words into the stratosphere.

Holmes didn’t answer.

  
  


***

They arrived at Scotland Yard sometime later, after Holmes had satisfied his curiosity on a few minor points of interest and thus given the coroner proper time to examine the corpse. Holmes spared no notice for the panoply of the Yard, heading toward the morgue with a single-minded focus. Outside the door that would lead them to the inner room of the mortuary Lestrade flashed him a warning look, something between a threat and a plea.

“Behave yourself,” he muttered gruffly, pulling open the door and Holmes pretended not to hear.

Inside the morgue proper it was cold and dark and damp, air stale and heavy with the smell of decaying flesh. In the corner great blocks of ice slowly melted atop three cadavers, keeping them chilled as they awaited autopsy and then interment. The miasma of blood and decomposing bodies was thick enough to taste and Dr. John Watson was red up to his elbows, hands buried deep in the body of their victim. He glanced up as they walked in, nodding his hello to the inspector and turning to Holmes with a face smooth as porcelain and innocent as the spring.

“Good evening,” he said easily, pulling the man's stomach out and setting it aside. "You must be Mr. Holmes.” A faint smile teased the doctor’s lips as he added, “Inspector Lestrade has warned me about you.”

“Has he now,” Holmes replied in a slow drawl, the ice in his voice thick enough to chill a corpse of its own. The intervening days had done little to improve Holmes' opinion of the doctor. He still didn't trust the man - creature - whatever he was, didn’t like whatever game Watson was playing, and had no interest in becoming his latest pawn. Fascinating as the mysteries surrounding the doctor's existence were, the man himself got under Holmes skin in an acutely unpleasant way.

Of course, were he perfectly honest with himself, perhaps he simply didn’t like the fact that Watson knew more than he did, and liked even less that Watson knew that, too.

“And what do you make of the deceased?” Holmes asked, playing into the charade.

Watson looked down at the body for a moment. "Exsanguinated, obviously. Bled out from two holes in his jugular.”

"It appears to be a trend,” Holmes remarked, voice dry as a desert wind. “What other injuries on the body aside from the neck?"

Watson glanced over a sheaf of paper on the table next to him, reading aloud. “Single contusion to the back of the skull, consistent with a sudden fall. Small abrasions on the hands and forearms, and bruises on the knees and shins.”

“No defensive wounds,” Holmes observed, bending down to peer at one long, white arm, “he was either caught by surprise, or - more likely - knew his attacker. What were the contents of his stomach?”

Watson referred to his notes once more. “Nearly empty; a half-digested pastry, that’s all, though remains of his breakfast were found in the small intestine.”

Holmes’ gave an indecipherable hum. Next to him, Lestrade looked increasingly put-upon, the small man shifting weight from foot to foot in agitation.

“And what does that tell you?" he asked impatiently, "I need answers, Holmes. My constables are acting like a barn full of horses when there's smoke."

Holmes sniffed. "You should tell your constables to conduct themselves with better decorum, murder is hardly rare. I am confident that the murderer was known to the victim; that narrows our list of suspects quite substantially."

"Narrows our list to whom, exactly?" Lestrade demanded, folding his arms. Across the table Watson idly finished up the autopsy, stuffing all of the man's parts back inside him for the undertaker to dispose of.

"When we have the man's identity, we will know the answer to that question."

Lestrade exhaled, much aggrieved. "Any hints that might help out with that? Strangers die in alleyways every day."

"He was a Londoner, but unfamiliar to that particular area of the city. He had traveled there by underground that afternoon on a matter of some urgency, and he was fond of billiards."

"Right, very helpful," Lestrade bit out. "I'll be sure to have our men wasting their time in billiard halls."

"I wouldn't presume to tell the Inspector how best to waste the constabulary's time," Holmes answered smoothly, flashing Lestrade the loveliest of smiles, "You'd know far better than I."

Lestrade glowered, face turning red as beetroot as he turned on his heel and marched out, door slamming shut with a hollow bang. Watson looked on in amusement, his eyes alight with silent laughter and for a moment Holmes was captivated, mind awash with stunning blue skies- but it was only a moment.

"You made all of that up," Watson said with certainty. "There's no proof for any of that."

Holmes sniffed again, scratched his cheek and placed a strong embargo on all thoughts of Watson's eyes or the color blue. Then he began to talk. "That he is a local man is beyond doubt. He is dressed in typical city fashion and his hat comes from a shop near Hanover Square; note the haberdasher's initials on the inside brim. Then there's the stub of an underground ticket in his jacket pocket but no train schedule, we can surmise then that he knew his way around - only locals dare the trains without a syllabus.

Now observe: here is a man of decent wardrobe in good health, who's girth indicates a hearty appetite, yet the contents of his stomach suggest he had not eaten a true meal since breakfast. There are no particular religious holidays that require fasting this time of year, and a pastry is not the nibblet of a man skipping meals to lose weight. Ergo, he has been in an urgent rush today, so much so that he has eaten nothing since early morning and bought a penny pastry from a shop to stave off hunger."

He picked up a cold, stiff hand, indicating with his finger as he spoke. "Note if you will the callus built up on the inside webbing of his left hand just here, between finger and thumb. He has calluses nowhere else on his hands; he is not a man used to hard labor. He is however a man who spends a great deal of time sliding a cue stick between his fingers. That and the white chalk on his sleeve says he was in the local gaming hall no more than an hour or two before dying. No time to eat, but time to shoot billiards. Clearly he had priorities."

Watson blinked in astonishment. "Amazing," he said, voice holding quiet wonder, "Lestrade should pay you up front."

"Lestrade does not pay me at all. When called upon by the Yard my usual fee is waived in service of the crown."

The doctor's mouth curved into a smile, and Holmes found himself studying the strange lack of creases on the vampire's face, the way his skin lay perfectly smooth, no laugh lines or wrinkles, no gravity pulling the skin inevitably downward. It was as though he'd been carved from marble, hard and pale and pure. "Very generous of you," Watson said. "The Yard would surely go bankrupt if they had to pay."

Holmes flicked the comment aside with his fingers. "I am certain Lestrade would say he pays in a multitude of other ways."

Watson laughed again, looked human again. “He surely does.” But then he sobered, regarding Holmes with a solemn expression.

“This wasn’t me, Holmes, nor any of my kind. On that I swear.”

"The blood that should have been feasted on is currently covering the walls of the alley where the body was found,” Holmes agreed, “He wasn't killed for his blood. Besides, these neck wounds are not consistent with fang marks. The edges are far too ragged, the holes themselves too large and far apart, and there are no incisor marks as there were on Langley. Unless this ‘vampire’ is twice as large as a man and missing most of his teeth, he wasn’t killed by one of you...but we are meant to think he was.”

Watson looked inexplicably relieved, shoulders sloping in a slowly collapsing line as he relaxed. “I feared you would not believe me.”

“Did you fear it?" Holmes asked, sounding only distantly interested. Then, "I might ask what you are doing masquerading as a coroner for the Yard.”

“I wanted to keep an eye on things,” Watson answered cryptically, wiping his blood stained hands on a rag. 

Holmes did not respond to that, turning his attention to the cadaver once more. “I found burnt cedar and sage in the alley where he fell, and these in his pockets,” From his coat he produced a few small items; a pinch of salt sewn into the corner of a small square of cotton, and a plain white crystal made of smokey quartz.

"You took evidence from the body?" Watson asked, more amused than disquieted. "Does Lestrade know about that?"

"It will serve the case far better in my hands than sitting in an evidence room," Holmes replied airily, not the slightest bit ashamed.

"Will they now." Another small, odd smile crossed Watson's face. He examined the items carefully. “Occult, from the look of them.”

“For the banishment of evil, and protection from harm. I believe he was attempting a protective ritual, before he was attacked.” 

Watson looked up at him with interest, eyebrows hiked high on his forehead. “You’re familiar with the occult? Stamford led me to understand you gave such things no credence.”

“Until two weeks ago I did not, but you must admit rather a lot has happened since then.” Two weeks ago he did not believe in vampires, either. “And while it is clear whatever form of witchcraft this fellow practiced failed to save his life, I can no longer discount its existence entirely.”

“You seem to have accepted the idea with a great deal of equanimity.”

Holmes shrugged, unbothered. “When the scientific mind is presented with new data it must mold it’s thinking to encompasses it. The mistake far too many people make is in rejecting the new, because they are comfortable with the status quo.”

Watson hummed thoughtfully, then looked again at the dead man, his expression pensive. “At the risk of conceit, I believe this was a message meant for me.”

“It is highly unlikely the deaths are unrelated," Holmes agreed.

“And you say he knew his killer?”

“It is the most likely explanation, given all evidence. He still has his pocketbook, watch and ring, thus it was not the work of a random thief. We already know it was not a vampire. The chalk markings and ceder tell us he was performing some sort of protective ritual, and the circle was large; enough so that two men might fit comfortably within. That he believed something was after him is beyond doubt, thus were he alone and in a hurry he would have made the circle small so as to save time. Then of course, there is the most damning evidence; not what was found on the body, but rather what was missing from it."

Watson watched him avidly, thoroughly invested and Holmes felt gratification spark in his chest like a warm ember. The rapt attention of men he was used to; this was something different, something _new_.

"Chalk," Holmes revealed at last. "There was none to be found at the scene, meaning the killer took it with him, because it was his own."

Watson frowned, smooth brow furrowed in concentration as he thought. "Likely then," he said slowly, "the victim was lured by his compatriot into the alley -somewhere dark and quiet, untraceable to the killer - under the auspice of needing his ‘friend’ to help him perform a warding ritual."

Holmes smiled slightly. “Very good, doctor. What better excuse than that he was being pursued by an all-to-real evil? Your stunt at the church would have such men as these on high alert- they would know something unholy stalked the streets of London." To his credit, Watson at least had the decency to look chagrined.

"But why kill him in this manner? What message are they trying to send? I already know they are willing to murder.”

Holmes' tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, _"tch"_ , and he shot Watson a captious gaze, "Is it not obvious? Were it simply a willingness to murder they would not have copied the crime. You are being framed, doctor."

Watson's frowned deepened. “It may be I have overstayed my welcome in London...yet I would hate to leave, I have been here for fifty years." He looked at Holmes. "You must have lied to Lestrade about me."

Holmes ran his hand over his chin and addressed the rafters as he spoke, "I told him as much of the truth as he would believe; that the killer was blond man, ex-military, abnormally strong, and whom the victim certainly believed to be a vampire."

"But you knew my name," Watson pressed, "you could have given him that. And he would have believed you - he may not like you much but he trusts your judgement in these matters."

Holmes did look at him then, gaze shrewd and knowing. "And achieve what? Consider the ramifications if he actually succeeded in finding you."

"He would be dead, and I would be gone," Watson said flatly.

Holmes nodded in agreement. "Precisely. Him, and any constables unfortunate enough to be with him. Thus what would exposing you to the Yard achieve except more death? The end goal of any investigation is to prevent more crime, not exacerbate it."

"Is it?" Watson asked in earnest. "I had assumed the purpose of an investigation was to reveal the truth. But I am grateful nonetheless."

"I have uncovered many truths in the course of my work that have remained hidden for the greater good," Holmes responded, the words thick with irony. 

For a long time Watson made no reply, staring at the body between them as though it were a divination pool that he might unravel the secrets of if only he gazed into it long enough. Finally he looked up.

"May I ask you again to take my case?" He entreated, and this time there was no imperiousness, no cagey smirk, no cards hidden up the doctor's sleeve, waiting to be played. He was simply a man asking for help - asking for _Holmes'_ help - and the detective felt himself thaw, frost retreating to the shadows. Not gone, but abated. 

He held Watson's eyes with a gaze sharp as carpet tack. "And I ask again: what would you have me do? You already know who is after you; how am I to act upon that information?"

"Help me stop them, before they kill more innocent men in their efforts to expose me. I know who is after me, yes, but if I wish to stay in London the only recourse I have is to rain death down upon them. Despite what you may think of me, I do not believe that is the best solution."

Holmes found himself approving of that answer. "And are you as my client willing to do as I ask, or must I maneuver around your natural inclination for immortal pigheadedness?"

Despite himself Watson laughed, and bowed slightly towards Holmes, a conciliatory tone to the movement.

"I will put forth every effort to follow your instructions, and if I feel I cannot, I will at least tell you why."

"Very well. Then tell me firstly who precisely is in pursuit of you, and when you became aware of it."

Watson nodded, as willing now to be helpful and he had previously been uncooperative. "The man after me is a friend and fellow reverend of Father Deighton, the vicar of the church where Langley’s body was found. His name is Father Newman, and he has been a guest at the vicar's parish house for many weeks. I do not know their exact relationship, nor how or when he first began to suspect me, though I have my suspicions. I only know that four weeks ago, Langley began shadowing me with increasing frequency."

"And you are certain it is Father Newman who was the catalyst for Langley's involvement?"

"He confronted me," Watson replied, and Holmes arched his brow questioningly. 

"He accused you of being a vampire?" 

Watson shook his head. "Not outright, no. He said he knew what I was and then called me a 'tool of the devil' along with a good many other colorful epithets. Father Newman is quite well respected among the congregation and I didn't want trouble from the vicar or anyone else, so I left. A few days later, Langley began following me. Discreetly at first, but with more boldness as the days passed. You know how that story ends." 

Holmes considered all that carefully. "If Langley was reporting back to Newman then he now knows where you live and work. However," - Holmes indicated the corpse - "this man is a stranger to you. As an attempt to frame you, it would have gone better to have targeted someone familiar, such as a patient. That is a good sign. It means he still doesn't know very much about you at all." He tossed a brief glance Watson's direction. "I would have cautioned you against working for the Yard, your increased visibility here compounds not only the risk to yourself but to me as well."

"Are you asking me to quit, as your client?" Watson asked in all seriousness.

"Not yet. Had I known your intentions before I would have advised against it, but you are here now. Leaving abruptly in the midst of this case would do nothing but cast more eyes your direction."

"I will stay then," he said. "My working here may be of benefit to you and the case."

Holmes put rather long odds against that but saw no benefit in sharing such an opinion, however correct it was likely to be. "Is there a way to send a secure message to you? If you are under observation, I will not make a habit of calling."

"A message in a bottle, hidden in a wall?"

Holmes pursed his lips. Perhaps it happened with immortality that one became less concerned with living as the years stretched on. It certainly seemed true that one became less helpful. Why had he agreed to this case again? Ah yes, because Stamford would have asked it of him.

"Well, let us hope no message is required then," he said dourly. 

"I am being serious," Watson said, reading Holmes' sour expression. "I could set up a drop location somewhere neutral to both of us."

"Were I to be followed, that would not be terribly helpful. Is there no-one you trust?"

"Not anymore," he replied shortly, and the silence that followed weighted on them both. "Perhaps someone on your end, or are you also out of trusted associates?"

"A few; I will see what can be arranged."

Watson nodded. "I know my safety is hardly your concern," he continued, "but you shouldn't worry about it either way; I am well protected. This case is entirely about exposing the machinations of others."

"It is not your safety I am chiefly concerned with," Holmes retorted. "This business sets _me_ in a vulnerable position as well."

"I will not allow harm to come to you," Watson assured him, voice warm with conviction, and growing warmer when he received no response. "I am in earnest, Holmes."

"Of course," Holmes finally replied with flawless diplomacy, giving a slight bow of his own. "Until tomorrow night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no journal entry to this chapter because it's a very long story and making separate entries for each chapter would get tedious very quickly. We'll add them whenever we feel Watson has something relevant to say that can't be found in the chapter itself.


	4. The Detective, The Vampire, and the Green-Eyed Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for: dead bodies, some gore

Chapter 4:The Detective, The Vampire, and the Green-Eyed Monster  


  
  


Watson watched Holmes leave, giving more attention than he should to the vanishing line of his shoulders, the black swirl of coat. He tried to get back to work and found himself utterly devoid of concentration, his mind overrun, thoughts bent again and again toward the man he had so recently viewed as an adversary. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective. Sherlock Holmes, preeminent champion of law and order. Sherlock Holmes, the man he had thought he might kill...

All right then, it had been petty of him, and he was marginally disappointed in himself to find that after a hundred years, he still had the capacity for such picayune urges. But then again he had worked hard to retain his humanity, to live among mortals and love them and feed on them without killing. To befriend them. Perhaps a moment here and there of all too human weakness was no more than his due.

Perhaps it had been dangerous, to let himself care so much for Stamford.

Perhaps not.

Holmes was, at least, living up to Stamford's description of him as "the queerest pile of contradictions God ever breathed life into." Both irascible and conscientious, brilliant and unhinged, the breeding of a gentleman and the manners of a bohemian...moral, but eschewing all trappings of conventional propriety. The man who had both loved Stamford and left him to die.

He pondered for a moment the wisdom of their having joined forces: Holmes was a man who could, with very little effort, make life extremely difficult for Watson if he so chose. He could discover his lair, reveal him to the Yard, set dozens of hunters against him...or pierce him through the heart with the business end of a well-sharpened stake.

But he would not. Watson knew this as surely as he knew the sun would rise. If Holmes were to do any of these things of his own volition, they would have been done already. Holmes was crafty, dangerous in his way and quite possibly deranged but he was fundamentally a man of his word. He would not move against Watson now unless the doctor's own actions demanded it. Fortunately, Watson had spent a century mastering his darker impulses; he was in no danger of making Holmes his enemy.

It was now simply a matter of waiting for Holmes to realize that truth for himself - which he would, eventually. Holmes seemed to do nothing so well as he uncovered the truth.

Watson went back to work, finished his report, started another. Dissected bodies with professional indifference, cold hands sorting through intestines like rummaging through file drawers. He weighed organs, split open stomachs, examined bullet holes...and thought too much about Sherlock Holmes.

In a dark, closed-off part of his mind he didn't like to acknowledge Watson imagined what it might be like to feed from him, to part his rumpled collar at the neck and bite down, that moment's resistance before teeth pierced flesh, the euphoric rush of blood. Watson's hand tangled in the dark mess of hair...he wondered what Holmes might taste like...

A sound like snapping finger bones and Watson blinked, feeling something wet coat his fingers and he thought with detached confusion _am I bleeding?_ He glanced down to find the pen in his hand crushed to a twisted mélange of metal and ink, black morass dripping down, pooling on the desk and creeping towards his medical journals like the piceous tendrils of some monstrous deep-sea creature. It reminded him of ichor, of blood. It reminded him he had forgotten to feed this week...

He cursed and flung the pen away. He was still thinking about Sherlock Holmes. Thinking about the way the detective would be smirking at him right now, supercilious smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, hands in his pockets as he watched Watson make an immortal fool out of himself.

He hadn't crushed a pen in years; he had far more mastery over his own strength than that. He sighed and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, sopped up the mess and cleaned his fingers, rescued his journal, rinsed everything off in the sink. Mundane tasks, these tiny everyday details. Watson found quiet solace in them; they made him feel human.

As he scrubbed the lye soap over his hard skin he had a moment of clarity, identifying the feeling inside himself at last. He had thought it was anger. He had thought - he had thought himself incensed by Holmes, embittered over Stamford's death. This, he realized with no small amount of chagrin, was not the case.

It had not been vengeance that drove the worst parts of himself forward into Holmes' life; it had been jealousy.

Jealousy that Stamford - his dear friend, the man he trusted with his greatest secret - had not seen fit to share with Watson the true nature of his relationship with Holmes, nor even given him reason to suspect they were more than friendly colleagues. That he could have trusted Watson was beyond doubt; it was not as though Watson _cared_ about such things. Yet he had kept that part of himself secret...and that, that hurt.

It hurt too that _this_ was the man Stamford had chosen as a lover; the man Stamford had died for.

Not Watson.

But there was little to be gained from standing uselessly about mooning over the past, and even less by clinging to such childish feelings as jealousy over a man who a fortnight ago hadn't even known he existed. He had a job to do, a murderer to catch, and, perhaps, a detective to keep an eye on. He had meant what he'd said the last time they spoke; he would not allow harm to come to Sherlock Holmes.

He owed Stamford that much at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but hopefully worthwhile as we finally get a glimpse into Watson's head.


	5. The Devil's Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings

Chapter 5: The Devil's Details   


  
  


It was very late; closer to dawn than sunset. The place Holmes next intended to visit would be closed for the night and thus it was back to Baker Street and those lonely rooms he perfunctorily referred to as 'home' but which had not felt as such for many months. Tomorrow he would pick up the threads of the investigation again.

The streets were dark and fog filled, lamps creating capsules of amber colored light within the brume. There were very few hansoms about this time of night and thus Holmes was obliged to walk quite far before finding a cab willing to convey him the rest of the way.

He wasn’t much bothered by the fact. Walking was good for stimulating the mind, and there was much to consider.

At the heart of it, of course, was the doctor himself. John Watson, an impossible thing. A creature that science and reason told him _should not_ exist, yet did. Far from being terrified, Holmes found himself examining the doctor’s existence with the keen interest of a scientist on the verge of some monumental discovery. Everything about John Watson was a mystery, a fascination that had forced him to rethink all he thought he once knew about the laws of science, nature and man.

Perhaps other men would flee from such knowledge. But Holmes had never been like other men.

On the whole, he adapted to this sharp turn in his world-view with almost philosophical aplomb. After all, science itself was continuously challenging man to redraw the boundaries of his knowledge in an ever-expanding attempt to understand the fundamental principium of the universe. If this was a somewhat extreme example, it was essentially no different. Should he reject the facts in front of him simply because they did not align with his preconceived notions of the world? Of course not. The rational thing, the _correct_ thing, was to re-align his thinking to encompass new information.

As to the man himself, Holmes found his feelings far from resolute. He had not liked the doctor upon their first meeting, or their second - and given the man had sought him out with the intent to kill, Holmes held that opinion as fair - thus Watson had entered their third confrontation with Holmes being decidedly prejudiced against him. Somewhat surprisingly however, he found his opinion slightly improved on closer acquaintance. Once Watson accepted Holmes would not be intimidated by him. Once Holmes accepted Watson was in genuine need of help.

But after all Holmes was a man of reason down to his core and he did not allow opinion to cloud his judgement. Thus whatever his personal feelings toward Watson, he did believe Langley had been killed in self defense, and he believed too Watson was being framed for murder. It did not take a great deal of acumen to understand that his energies were best spent pursuing the killers, rather than squabbling with a vampire. That the pursuit would doubtlessly bring him into contact with the doctor at regular intervals was not a thing that could be helped; he was going to need Watson, whether he liked it or not.

He was still in deep contemplation as he finally succeeded in hailing a cab, dapple-flanked horses pulling up beside him with the steam pouring from their mouths. He gave the address by rote, the driver responding with a quick jerk of his head and a sharp crack of leather reigns. Holmes senses were keen but he was still human, bound by human limitations and the driver spared no attention for anything not directly in his path; thus neither of them noticed the dark figure that watched them from the shadows.

***

  
  
Holmes was greeted in the morning with hot tea and cold rain, desultory clouds the color of tombstones hanging low in the air, wrapping around the city like wool.

He had not slept well.

He rarely did, these days, but now at least the blame could be laid at the feet of a murder investigation and the newly discovered existence of what - lacking a better term – must be called vampires, and that was far better an excuse for exhaustion than soul-rending despair.

On the whole, Holmes concluded his situation to be somewhat improved.

Thankfully a socially acceptable sleep schedule was not expected of Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson brought him the paper with a long-suffering sigh, her thin face pinching in as she took his disreputable state; the rasp of beard on an unshaven face, shadows like bruises under his eyes. He disliked the shrewdness of her gaze, its dissecting nature. He let fly with some caustic observation or three and felt pettily satisfied by the hard glint in her eyes.

She didn’t say anything. She knew him too well for that.

That morning he visited the haberdasher's shop in Mayfair. He needed the identity of the second man.

The hat shop was busy and the proprietor professionally unhelpful, courteous to a fault and showing all due sympathy for his deceased patron but unwilling to release any information until Holmes returned with either a warrant or a constable. Holmes then invited the man to consider a third option in the form of a handful of coins and he left again with the name Michael Kramer and the gentleman's home address scrawled along the bottom of a pay receipt.

His next stop was the Yard, and he wondered if Lestrade had managed to identify the body ahead of him.

It seemed unlikely.

***

  
  


A brief inquiry of the marginally competent officers at Scotland Yard informed him that the dead man had yet to be identified and it was comforting to know the new world order had at least shown no effect on the acumen of London’s constabulary. Holmes found Lestrade in his cramped and paper strewn office, pouring over whatever mundane bureaucracy it was that kept the wheels of justice turning a snail’s pace.

“Kramer, eh?” the inspector asked, glancing at the haberdasher's receipt Holmes had produced from his pocket like a hat trick. He gave the detective an unfriendly look, “You might have waited for a proper warrant,” he scolded. “You can’t just take things, you know.”

"I didn't take anything; it was offered freely," Holmes said lightly. "Though I'm sure if you feel a warrant is still necessary you will have little trouble obtaining one."

"You have a habit of taking," Lestrade grumbled, accepting the receipt with grudging acknowledgement. "Did the hat maker tell you anything helpful?"

"Not particularly."

"Well. At least we can contact this poor man's family. Or did you do that, too?"

"No indeed; I came to the Yard as soon as I had his identity, as I think we can agree there are better men suited to that particular task."

"Indeed," Lestrade agreed. "I'll send a constable 'round to the address once we identify the relatives." He stared at Holmes for a long moment, face pulled into a faint scowl. "Anything else?"

Lestrade was in fine humor that morning and Holmes understood it had very little to do with him. The inspector had been dressed down by his superiors over some petty grievance and while undoubtedly hard-done by, the man was forced to hold both his tongue and temper in such situations. As such, he was looking for someone to vent his ire upon. Fortunately for the inspector, Holmes was more than willing to rise to the occasion. "Not yet, though it is rewarding to know how thoroughly you rely on me to do your job."

Lestrade blustered, mustache flipping upward in rage. "I am only asking to ensure you are not hiding evidence from the law!" he thundered.

"If I were you could hardly expect me to own it," Holmes countered reasonably, a sperious grin cut across his face.

"I should expect such dishonesty from you," Lestrade growled, skin flushing deep crimson. "Go on, get out of here."

"Do you call me a liar?" Holmes asked, taunting smile melting into an expression of wide-eyed innocence and the whole thing was entirely too easy.

"I've called you plenty worse than that!" the inspector barked.

Holmes sniffed, feigning offense. "If you believe me to be so dishonest perhaps you should remove me from the investigation."

"You are removed!" Lestrade snapped hotly, hand slamming down on the desk top for emphasis. "We've got a name; we'll take it from here."

Holmes smiled placatingly, bowed low, and left. His next visit was to doctor Watson's practice.

***

The lights were on in the surgery once again, and the good doctor opened the door just as Holmes reached the top step. Holmes thought to himself _preternatural hearing_ and cataloged it as data; one more thing observed, noted and categorized.

Watson was unsurprised to see him. "Come inside," he invited, stepping out of the way.

Holmes brushed past him into the foyer and turned, a gracefully fluid movement that brushed their shoulders together. "You need to hire me," he said without preamble.

Watson's eyebrows shot up as he shut the door. "Do I now?" he asked, faint amusement tinting his voice. "This is a rather sudden shift in events. Why?"

"Because I have just been removed from the Yard's official investigation of Michael Kramer - that's our corpulent alleyway victim, by the way," Holmes replied smoothly. "As a concerned citizen, surely you do not wish to see such a heinous crime go unpunished, and as you are a reasonable individual you must know the Yard will bungle the investigation hopelessly. Furthermore, as you are already my client in another case and I believe the two to be intimately related, it is in your best interest to hire me to investigate them both." He finished and waited expectantly, and the corner of Watson's mouth curved up in a slight smile. His eyes were twinkling again, but Holmes didn't let himself think about that.

"I see. Well then, consider yourself hired." He turned and walked lazily down the hall. "Will you stay and say what you've learned, or are you keen to return to the streets once more?"

"I have not learned a great deal," Holmes admitted as he fell into step behind him, "though I hope to do better now I am somewhat...unfettered. The deeper this case goes, the more difficult time I would have had shielding you from the Yard, were I bidden to go through official channels."

"As you say, the cases are related," Watson noted as they reached the parlor. "I can make tea if you like. On the subject at hand: have you any more of a clue who killed Mr. Kramer? Was it Father Newman himself, or a member of the congregation, like Langley?"

"Tea? Good lord man, you're a doctor; surely you've a stronger medicinal drink to offer than that. And the answer is no, though the church I shall investigate in the morning."

"The liquor is for patients," Watson chastised, then busied himself starting a fire in the parlor hearth.

"It must be very convenient to be so unbothered by one's environment," Holmes said idly, noting the frost on the window panes, the puffs of breath that emanated from his mouth as he spoke.

"Hmm?" Watson replied, turning to him and appearing for the first time to take note of the chill. "Ah- well, wasn't expecting company, you know." He crossed the room, filled a kettle with water and set it into the open flames of the hearth bare-handed and seemingly without thought, giving his hand an absent shake as he pulled it away. "And I would advise you to be careful of the church; if things are as you say then Newman is a dangerous man and he has the vicar's confidence. I doubt he will hesitate to harm you if he believes you are sheltering me."

"I am well used to danger," Holmes replied, watching the scene with reserved fascination. "But I appreciate the warning."

"You should not be so reckless with your life."

"I am not," Holmes corrected, for the first time warmth in his voice. "I accept that my work can be dangerous; I also accept that it must be done. Were I a reckless man, I would have died ten years ago at least."

"Take more care around these men than you usually would," Watson cautioned, belaboring the point, "you have no one to watch your back now."

Holmes' face tightened imperceptibly and he clenched his hands behind his back. "I am acutely aware of the fact," he replied, voice thin.

"At least you now know a doctor," Watson said blithely and Holmes wanted to hit him, the feelings of loss and guilt that surfaced at the near-mention of Stamford seething just under his skin.

"Quite," he bit out.

The vampire at least had the good sense to catch on quickly. "I meant for your own health," he amended lamely.

What followed was a thick and awkward silence, heavy with things unspoken but they were saved from the floundering conversation as the kettle shrieked like a steam engine and Watson grabbed it from the fire again, transferring it to the tea tray. His fingers came away from the hot metal with the barest tinge of pink - skin certainly not so red as it had been after he'd been marked by silver.

"So fire and heat _do_ injure; though it would have to be a prolonged exposure to inflict real damage," Holmes commented, steering the discussion down more interesting and less melancholy paths.

"Fire more easily than heat alone," Watson replied with a nod. "More flammable than a human, for the younger among us. On its own warmth is not much of a concern."

Holmes contemplated that. "Why do you suppose sunlight is so destructive to your kind?" he mused.

"There are many theories, some of them more religious than others," Watson said, setting the tea tray down on the table next to Holmes. He took a seat and glanced at his hand, seeming unbothered. "Some think the sun is God's eye, and exposure to it destroys us because we are tools of the devil."

Holmes scoffed lightly. "I have never found any religious doctrine that could explain what science could not," he dismissed. "What do _you_ believe?"

Watson's face grew pensive as he gave the question due consideration, the firelight flickering orange on his pale skin. Finally he shook his head and said with an apologetic shrug, "I honestly can't say; aspects of it defy any science I know. I've studied for a hundred years, trying to learn more but there is little in the way of true research. Much of what I know I have learned from studying myself.”

Holmes pulled out his pipe and shag from a coat pocket, filling the clay bowl and setting it alight. "If there are things that defy science," he began, "then science must expand it's embrace. I do not know that there is a God but if there is, and if he is indeed responsible for the creation of the world and its heavens, then there must a system to it: order and method, rule and reason. If there is no God, there are still rules. The sun sets, the stars rise. Your heart beats, albeit slowly. You age slowly and heal quickly; these are not contradictory properties. You are nocturnal, and cannot bear the sun. If your condition is more acute than other nighttime creatures, it is not without precedent. Your strength and endurance have increased, I wager your other senses have enhanced accordingly. None of that is unusual for an apex predator, which you certainly are."

Watson listened to Holmes acutely, chin pressed into his hand and a wan smile forming on his face at the certainty in Holmes' voice, his unmovable conviction. "What is a predator, when he is self-aware?" he pondered. "We excuse the lion its violence because it knows not what it does. What then is my moral alignment?"

Holmes let out a puff of grey smoke, watched as it dissipated into the air. "I would wager it is little different than that of the human you used to be. _Man_ is a predator; that we are self-aware does not negate this. Likewise, you are now a predator of men. You would not be very effective if you were not _at least_ as self-aware as your prey."

"Do you consider men inherently evil then, or are they good? Or neither? To each man his own? You work with the law and investigate crime. I imagine you have seen more than a lifetime's worth of evil, enough you may be qualified to make a such a judgement."

"If you have indeed lived a hundred years, I doubt I have seen as much as yourself; I have not yet lived half a lifetime. However, I have witnessed both great evil and great goodness in that time. We, mankind, are neither inherently good nor inherently evil. If I were to make a sweeping judgement, I would say what we are is inherently conflicted - and afraid."

Watson smiled. It wasn't quite a smirk, but a dark mirth lingered there.

"That never changes," Holmes continued. "The nature of man: conflicted and afraid. Fear is an inherent characteristic in any sentient creature. The deer must be ever wary of the wolf, and the wolf fears the hunter. But conflict; it is our self-awareness which grants us that. The urial fears the lion but it is not conflicted about it. Neither is the lion conflicted about where its dinner comes from. We are capable of such great goodness and great evil precisely _because_ we are self-aware. When we apply that awareness to evil, the results are horrifying. When we apply it to goodness, they are redeeming. We do nothing without being aware of our actions, and that gives each one greater consequence.

You are now a predator of predators. Evolution requires that you understand your prey, to the same degree at least that the cat understands the mouse. So, it stands you would not be stripped of your capacity to reason. If anything, it would be enhanced."

"Oh indeed yes,” Watson confirmed with a nod, “there are many things I understand more quickly and with more clarity than I did before. I think, had I been a mortal man experiencing the revolution of technology we have gone through this century, I might have been quite staunchly against it. Trains, steam power, electricity - such wonders! And such horrors, as well."

"Wonder and horror in equal measure," Holmes agreed philosophically. "We are nothing if not consistent in our plurality."

Watson laughed. "I can assure you of that. But my musings have a purpose: do you consider _me_ evil? Will you, after all is said and done, turn me over to the law or the church?"

Holmes glanced at him, sucked in a breath with a slow hiss. "Were that my intention I would not have agreed to help you in the first place. My mind is far from made up about you, but its verdict will hinge entirely upon your own actions. I do not know what crimes you have committed in the past, though I can tell easily enough they burden you. That burden alone proves you have not left your humanity entirely behind. That, and Stamford's opinion of you give me reason enough to trust you. For now."

Watson looked away at that, stared into the fire, popping embers reflecting in his eyes like starlight on a river. "There are things that one does, especially soon after the change, that are often regrettable," he said softly. "Unless proper guidance is given, it can be quite...destructive."

"And did you have such guidance?" Holmes asked, already having deduced the answer.

"No," he replied, and Holmes heard the loneliness of years echo in his voice. "When you are bleeding to death after sunset on a cold battlefield you do not ask the angel in white who appears before you if she is saving your soul or sealing a covenant with the devil."

"Which war was it?" Knowing Watson had been turned in battle hardly narrowed things down; humanity was at constant war with itself. One of those things that never changed.

"Seven Years' War, 1754. I was a doctor then, too."

"Fascinating," he murmured. "And this creature - vampire - who created you. What did she say?"

"You know, I wish I could remember," he said with a mirthless laugh, shaking his head. "I think I was delirious at the time. I suppose she must have asked if I wished to live. I most certainly said yes."

"Were you the only one she gave immortal death to on the battlefield?" Holmes was invested now; avid, calculating, examining everything Watson gave him with keen focus.

"I haven't the foggiest idea." He looked at Holmes apologetically. "I know that must be terribly disappointing. But she told me nothing that I can remember, just... finished killing me, and then gave me life again. She left while I was still-" Watson's mouth worked soundlessly, "-it is not an easy process to die and return."

It had hurt, is what Watson meant, and Holmes nodded in silent commiseration. Holmes himself had only come close to dying, and that was unpleasant enough. "I imagine your survival came with a great deal of trial and error in the beginning. And in what way is it disappointing? I am asking about your experiences; you are answering truthfully. That is all that can be expected."

"Disappointing because I have little information to give," Watson replied with a soft laugh. "After I turned, those first few nights - I survived only through instinct; knowing without lesson how to feed, how to find shelter from the sun."

Holmes offered him a look the verged on the edge of fondness. "My dear man your very existence is a feast of data; never presume you are anything less than fascinating."

Watson actually looked quite flattered by that, an almost boyish smile lighting his face, something soft and genuine and Holmes could finally see traces of the man Watson had once been beneath the predator's skin. "Thank you," he said, seeming deeply gratified.

"Have you met any other of your kin over the long years?" Holmes asked, refilling his pipe.

"Yes, though only a few. From the bits of our "culture" I have managed to learn, vampires are territorial to the extreme. Personally, I would not mind sharing London with another, but most do not agree with my ethics where feeding is concerned. It has brought us into conflict more than once."

"Solitary creatures, then. That does make sense."

“Not entirely solitary. From what I understand they usually form clans; united by their sire’s blood.”

“Hmmm,” Holmes noted, mouth shriveled and pursed in thought. “What else do you know of vampiric society?”

Watson leaned over and took Holmes' cup, refilling it as he spoke. “Very, very little I am afraid. As I said, the one who created me told me nothing - not even her name. Why do you ask?”

It was a question well below Watson’s intellect, and Holmes shot him a look of mild exasperation. “Who else would I ask? You say you know little, tell me what you _do_ know. Have you ever met a vampire as old as yourself?"

Watson shook his head as he returned the kettle to its place. "I don't think so, no. There were a few who made the claim, but I didn't believe them."

"Why not?" Holmes asked, and a dark shadow crossed Watson's face.

"They died too easily," he said shortly, and Holmes was obliged to hide his smirk behind his cup.

"Is that so," he replied, then turned his questions in another direction. "But now tell me, exactly how _did_ Langley end up on the church roof?"

Watson shrugged, looking briefly away. "I am quite strong. No wall is difficult for me to scale, even with a body in hand."

"Then you cannot fly," he affirmed, neither disappointed nor smug. It was simply another fact, a piece of data.

"I cannot, though I have heard older vampires can."

It was the first thing Watson had said that Holmes found himself disbelieving entirely.

Watson chuckled, noting the skepticism. "I will say scaling walls feels easier than it should be, even accounting for my increased strength."

"Scaling walls is within the known boundaries of science," Holmes replied, "flying men are not."

This time Watson laughed outright. "As I said, I have not seen it, but others speak as if it is fact."

But that hardly made a difference to Holmes; fools constantly spoke as if the nonsense they spouted were immutable truths.

"So your abilities grow with age?"

"They do, for certain," Watson confirmed. "I can withstand early dawn and sunset now; I could not before. I heal faster, and I can - I can hear mortal's thoughts more clearly, if I concentrate."

That got Holmes' attention. "Hear their thoughts?" he echoed, leaning forward in rapt curiosity.

"Yes, a form of telepathy. I believe many use it to select their targets for feeding."

"But you do not?"

"One of the services I offer as a doctor is bloodletting," Watson said in way of an explanation. "I don't need to pick out a random human from the crowd; they come to me."

And Watson let them live, and then they came back, thus ensuring a steady supply of fresh blood. "Most engaging. And what am I thinking right now?" Holmes challenged, his eyes alive with the prospect.

"Surface thoughts are easy," Watson said with a wave of his hand. "You're curious but skeptical. Anything deeper - I don't like to do, if I can help it. It's...rude."

Holmes found himself mildly disappointed and rather unimpressed. "'Curious but skeptical' would be obvious to anyone. Of course I am curious; I am asking you questions. Of course I am skeptical; you have claimed the ability to read minds.” He shook his head, “You will have to do better than that, doctor.”

Watson looked disquieted, shifting about in his chair like an unruly schoolboy. "To know anything more specific I would have to delve deeper into your mind - but it is very invasive."

"I should like you to try," Holmes pressed. He was a man of science; he dealt in all things with facts and cold reason. Watson should have known better than to make such an outlandish claim if he did not intend to back it up.

"It is a form of mental domination," Watson warned, still trying to talk him out of it, "you may not like how it feels..."

"You have my permission," he replied crisply and at once, "you are not responsible for the results of my own choices." Watson didn't know it, but those were almost the exact words Stamford had said to Holmes. Before he died as a result of those choices, of course.

Seeing that Holmes would not be dissuaded and all other avenues barred Watson sighed, stood and took the few steps to Holmes’ chair, placing his hand atop the detective’s head...

Holmes found himself taut with anticipation. He immediately switched his internal thoughts from English to French, mostly to test whether or not the doctor’s claims were true, and if so, whether or not he could detect subtler things such as shifts in language. Did a vampire ‘hear’ the thoughts of mortals, or did they see images, or sense emotion? It was all quite fascinating.

The presence of Watson’s mind pressing against his became apparent at once, like a mental shadow, but one with mass and weight. He experienced a strange feeling of buzzing lightheadedness, a minor charge like static across his brain. Something dark and cold and not his own slithered around within his mental landscape and Holmes was reminded rather unpleasantly of tentacles.

It was gone the next instant, Watson’s hand snatched away as though Holmes' skin were made of pure silver. The doctor inhaled sharply, looking down at him in something like awe.

"How do you _function_?" he asked breathlessly, eyes wide and open as the sky and Holmes answered placidly, “In what sense?”

“You - most men would be driven mad by such a mind. How do you function?” he asked again, and Holmes' shrugged in a lackadaisical manner.

"Better some days than others," he admitted, and it was a good day so no one privy to his inner thoughts - as Watson had just been - would guess at the organized chaos raging behind those dark eyes. "Cocaine helps. So does morphine, and music. But nothing helps so well as work. When there are problems and puzzles...that is when my mind is most at peace. When I've something to _focus_ upon, the rest of it falls away - it is an unspeakable relief. How did you fare? It was certainly an odd sensation on this end."

"It was overwhelming almost immediately," Watson confessed, shaking his head incredulously. "And my mind is stronger than it was when I was mortal. I cannot fathom living with such a maelstrom."

Holmes eyebrows twitched out a shrug, "One learns to cope, when there is no alternative." He didn’t ask Watson to prove his claim; he had _felt_ the man's presence in his mind. It had been decidedly uncomfortable, but fortunately Holmes had always had a rather high tolerance for such things as pain and discomfort. "Is that where the legend of the minion familiar comes from?" he asked. "The mindless, loyal servant of the cursed? Can your kind dominate human minds so thoroughly they become little more than slavish vassals?"

"Yes, it's possible," Watson said, “Though I have never done so myself. It is a process called ‘thralling’, and requires a mortal to drink the blood of a vampire. If given enough, the blood dominates a human’s thoughts, and he becomes the vampire’s tool in all things.”

"Fascinating," he murmured, then louder, "And are the effects permanent?" 

"No indeed, it fades over time. It depends on how much blood is given, but generally a thrall will last only a week or two. After that more blood must be drank. I am unfamiliar with the particulars, but I understand the practice is a common one among my kind. Vampires often use thralls as a food source, and to help guard their lairs in the daylight while they sleep." 

Holmes considered that, scratching absently at his cheek. He was acutely aware that he was the proverbial lamb lying down with the lion, but he had little choice. Watson was right in the thick of this thing, and he needed someone with Watson's insight and knowledge to help navigate this bizarre underworld. Dangerous as Watson might be - and he was very dangerous, there was no mistaking that - it would be far more so to work the case without him. In any respect Stamford had trusted him, and he had trusted Stamford. With his life, even.

Hopefully Stamford would do better there than was done to him. On that point...

“Are there other preternatural creatures besides vampires who could have killed Mr. Kramer? It would make sense that the church, having failed to be rid of you using human hands, might turn to other, more fantastical methods."

"I do not know of any other such creatures," Watson replied with a shake of his head. "I have heard of some; werewolves, spirits, fae... but as far as I know, no evidence speaks of their existence, which I suppose lends more credence towards your theory of this affliction being a scientific phenomenon.”

"There are many scientific phenomena,” Holmes answered dismissively. “The existence of one does not negate the existence of another. In fact, the possibility of such increases exponentially."

"Does it?" Watson mused. "Some vampires I have encountered spoke as though spirits were real, but I have never encountered such a presence."

"I had never encountered a vampire, yet here you are." Holmes rejoined, removing his hat and running a careless hand through his hair. "An open mind is vital in the pursuit of science, Watson. Closed eyes observe nothing."

"One could argue that too open a mind leads to madness."

That made Holmes laugh, a sharp bark that threw his head back, the planes of his face momentarily illuminated by the lamplight. "I would not argue the point at all, but I doubt there are many who would not agree I am nearly there in any case."

"I don't consider you mad, but even if you were, that's hardly a bad thing," Watson offered softly.

"There may be many days I'd disagree with you, doctor," Holmes said, fitting his hat on again as he stood, "but fortunately this is not one of them. Now, on to the business at hand. I mean to visit Saint Cyprian's in the morning."

"Yes," Watson said with a resigned sigh, "and my advice to be cautious remains." He stood as well and walked Holmes to the door. "If you present yourself as a man of science who does not believe any of it, that may work to your advantage. They will certainly not think you are an agent of darkness at the least."

But Holmes' mind had run down all those avenues long ago, though it seemed unsporting to point it out. Instead he said, "Duly noted. My next few missives will likely not be in person."

"I will wait for them in whichever form they take." Watson replied somewhat earnestly.

"Good man," Holmes replied, then he held out his hand.

Watson looked at the proffered hand for a moment, then took it, and Holmes was reminded again how very cold the doctor’s skin was.

The skin of a dead man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always questions, comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.


	6. Take Me to Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no trigger warnings

Chapter 6: Take Me To Church  


  
  


The next day there was one more beggar huddled on the steps of Saint Cyprian's. It didn't mean much; the state of the empire was such as to ensure a steadily revolving cycle of ragged men, women and orphans hovering about the church, each spot abandoned and taken up again as the unfortunates of society met their various untimely and oft unpleasant ends.

There was a pecking order of course, even in this sphere. Cathedrals were favored spots for panhandling due to the inclination for people to lean more towards generosity in the shadow of the church, and whether that spoke to the genuine altruism of the devout or merely their desire to appear so mattered little; money all spent the same regardless of province. Taken together with the chance the curates themselves would provide a meal or a dry place to sleep or some donated clothes on a given day and it meant the ground beneath the awning of a church was coveted as surely as any gold mine.

Holmes bribed his way into a spot with a bit of tobacco and a few coins.

He was there for two days.

The third morning the vicar himself made an appearance, and taking notice of Holmes stepped over, beckoning him inside with a firm but weathered hand upon his shoulder.

"Come inside, my fellow, the Lord blesses all his flock."

Holmes squinted about at the other beggars, then gave a hunched-over shrug and struggled to his feet, dirty crutch shoved tight under one arm. He started to hobble forward, following the reverend but was stopped by a stoop-shouldered mendicant in ratted clothes, wisps of soft white hair floating about his face like feather down.

“Don’t go in,” he rasped, voice rough and grizzled from years of too much drink. “Ain’t no God in _that_ church, stranger.”

Holmes paid the man no heed, following the priest into the relative warmth and dryness of the church.

"I've never seen you before," the vicar said, leading Holmes past the chancel and into the back where a small warm kitchen resided, popping fire heating the stone walls and floor. "I am Father Deighton. What is your sad tale? If you have not been long in despair perhaps help can save you before it's too late."

Of course, Holmes came prepared for this. "I come here ta London lookin' fer work," he answered in a rough, smash-mouthed northern accent. "But thar's no work ta be had."

"Many men have come to find work," the reverend agreed amicably, "Perhaps the church can help you in your endeavors. What skills do you have, Mr...?"

"Blevins," he replied. "I were me Masser's falconer; kept his birds. Masser went off with the militia and didn’t come back, an' I were out a job."

"Well," the priest replied, a bit surprised. "This is indeed providence. Bird keeping is something of pastime of mine. I’ve no falcons but I do keep a parrot, and several doves. Do you know husbandry for those birds?”

"Aye. I kin clean a coop."

Father Deighton nodded. "If you are willing to work hard and put your faith in God, I believe I can help you." He then laid a plate of bread and a cup of tea in front of Holmes. "Eat, while I go attend to my duties. When I return, we shall speak some more."

The vicar left and Holmes applied himself the task of cleaning his plate, displaying an appetite that was rarely present in his day-to-day life. After that he did very little, content to doze by the fire, the very picture of a penniless degenerate who was only grateful to have a full belly and a warm place to sleep.

When the reverend finally returned it was with another man of the cloth, a younger man who nonetheless seemed to carry years upon his back. "This is Father Newman," he said, "he is visiting our parish for a time, and is a guest in my house.”

Newman turned to Holmes with a watery gaze. "The father tells me you can care for animals," he said.

"Aye," he replied, and related again his short tale.

At the end the vicar smiled pleasantly. “I believe you may work out well; go with Father Newman and he will look after you.”

Holmes stumped away after Newman, following him out the side door by the kitchen and across the small church grounds. At the end of the green lawn stood a sturdy cottage of grey stone. Modest in terms of the clergy, but comfortable.

“This is Saint Cyprian’s clergy house,” Newman explained. “It is only Father Deighton and myself who stay here at the moment, and his duties at the church leave him scarce time to care for his birds. As for myself, I fear I know little of the subject. So you see, your skills are sorely needed; perhaps God has guided your feet here.”

Holmes gave a grunt of agreement, and Newman spent the next quarter hour showing him about, much of that time spent in the shed where Father Deighton kept a small menagerie of a single parrot in its own cage and six clip-winged doves in a coop.

Holmes squinted down at the birds. They were well fed, but the coop itself was in shabby condition and in sore need of a proper cleaning. The parrot fared little better; its cage was relatively clean of droppings but the creature itself had gone bald in places, the surrounding area covered in brightly colored feathers.

“Ought ta keep the parrot in the house,” Holmes mused, “He ain’t taking ta being out here with the doves.”

The priest gave him an indulgent smile, “Perhaps you are right. As I said, my knowledge of such creatures is limited.” Newman showed him where was stored everything he would need to clean and care for the birds, then left him to himself.

Holmes got to work. The doves were a simple affair, requiring little more than transferring them to a crate and covering it with sackcloth to simulate darkness. After that he cleaned the coop and put down a layer of sawdust and fresh grass and soon the birds were back inside, cooing contentedly and pecking about. The parrot however was another matter, and Holmes came away from the ordeal with several scratches and a new adversary.

Nonetheless Newman seemed pleased at Holmes’ competence and passed on his recommendation to the vicar and Holmes found himself in the employ of the church by lunchtime.

“You may sleep out here,” Father Deighton was telling him, indicating a rough straw bed inside the shed near the coop. “There are blankets to ward off the chill, and a warming pan you can fill from the hearth in the kitchen.”

"Much obliged," Holmes replied, nodding his head and touching the edge of his cap with a grubby finger. "What else ye want me ta do?"

“That will be all for now. We’ve a day maid that comes in the morning to cook and clean the clergy house, and I myself tend the gardens. You may weather here as long as you like, provided you work hard. The church will provide you with food and a small allowance that you might begin to improve your circumstances."

“Thank ye, Reverend, that’s very kind o’ ye.”

“We are all God’s children,” the pastor replied with a serene smile. “Now, supper is served before dark, as I am used to retiring early for the evening and the maid does not stay overnight. You may come to the kitchen door of the cottage and receive food at the toll of the diner bell, and set the dishes outside the door again when you are finished; the maid will collect them in the morning.”

“And wot am I to do, after the birds is cared for?” Holmes asked.

“You may do as you please, provided you abide within God’s law.”

And thus the terms of his employment were settled. Point in fact, Holmes abided within God’s law for the next several days, tending to the birds, sleeping in the shed, and acquainting himself with the staff of both church and clergy house.

On the third day he broke in.

***

  
  


It was Sunday, and the whole of the household at Mass when Holmes' dark figure sidled up to the kitchen door of the clergy house, made quick work of the lock and slipped inside. What he found was for the most part a typical manse - smaller than some but more than spacious enough for its purpose - and simple but comfortable arrangements; the reverend at least did not appear to concern himself with material gain.

Holmes had spent the last several days ferreting out what information he could and thus knew already what he was looking for, and the most likely places to find it. To that end his first destination was the cellar, and he paused on his way only long enough to pocket a few semi-valuable items; a silver candlestick from the table and a trinket box inlaid with pearls he found laying carelessly atop the mantle.

The cellar appeared in all respects an ordinary space, filled with the customary items such as coal, firewood and extra provisions. Holmes grabbed up a convenient candle from the stack at the bottom of the stair and set it alight, sending thick shadows shifting on the cold stone walls.

It was those walls that held his interest.

He walked their length bent over like a hunchback, eyes keen and hawklike as he examined the stonework. He stopped at a point midway, noting the telltale signs where the mortar had dried a different color, the faint scuffs on the floor in front of it, small drops of wax where a candle had been held alight.

He ran a hand along the rough stone, found the small grooves where strong fingers could grab hold and pull.

He did so, jerking with sudden strength and part of the wall came away, a hidden door opening outward to reveal a secret room within. Small and narrow, it had once been used to hide the treasures of the church in case of siege or civil unrest.

It's purpose these days was of a wholly different nature.

He stepped within, ducking his head to clear the low ceiling and his senses were immediately assaulted with the heavy scent of copper and iron. The room itself was empty; bare of any adornment save three metal rings set into the far wall. A rough, shallow trench had been cut into the stone floor, leading from the wall to a point halfway to the door. It ended at a hole approximately six inches in diameter and twice as deep. It too, was empty.

Beneath the metal rings, the floor was stained a dark wine color.

A chill did not run down his spine, but only because he was used to such horrors. He backed out, and shut the door. Then he simply stood there for a moment and breathed.

But it was only a moment. Then he snuffed the candle and ascended the stair, making his way toward the attic rooms at the top of the cottage. He’d managed no more than two paces up the staircase in the main hall when he heard footsteps coming towards him.

Father Newman rounded the corner, only to jump back again in surprise.

"Oh! Dear Lord!"

Holmes started as well, shrinking back with a guilty look upon his face. "Sorry gov'nr!" he wailed, falling wretchedly to his knees. "I couldn’t stop meself..."

Several emotions flickered over the priest's face as he glanced from Holmes to the staircase and back again, settling finally in stern puzzlement. “What are you doing here, Mister Blevins?” he demanded, voice even and controlled but holding within it a sinister edge.

"Had a bad night," Holmes said, struggling to his feet by balancing against the wall. “Spent the money the reverend gave me on drink.” He looked away in guilt, tattered sleeve rubbing at his eyes. “And when it were all gone I still wanted more, so...” his shoulders hitched around a sob and he reached into the faded saddle bag slung over his shoulder, pulling out the pilfered items.

“So you were robbing the clergy house,” Newman finished, face and tone darkening as he glanced up the stairs once more.

Holmes nodded, still weeping pitifully.

He reached out and grabbed Holmes' shoulder in a bruising grip. “Where did you go?” he asked quickly, giving him a shake and Holmes pointed behind him. “Jes’ through the rooms there, an’ the kitchen. I were makin’ me way upstairs when I 'eard ye comin'.”

Newman was silent for a long while, seeming to consider the avenues before him. Finally he spoke, voice low. “I needn’t tell you how very serious this is. Were it up to me, I would have you dismissed from the clergy house in disgrace.”

The words sent Holmes into a fresh bout of tears.

“However,” he continued, “This is Father Deighton’s church, and the decision is his alone. He’s another hour at Mass, and then you can explain your actions to him, and pray for his forgiveness.”

Vicar Newman waited with Holmes until the conclusion of Mass, then marched him to the vicar by his ear – quite literally. Holmes explained again what he had done and why, pathetic figure crumpled on his knees, grabbing imploringly at the hem of the priest's robe.

Father Deighton listened patiently, face pensive and after Holmes fell silent offered him a benevolent smile. “You poor man,” he said gently, holding out his hand and bringing Holmes to his feet. “This is not so unexpected. It makes sense you would fall to vice now that things are looking up for you. It is so easy to forget the cold of sleeping on the street. Perhaps you thought to yourself that you deserved a reward for finally getting back on your feet. Does that sound right?"

"Thought I'd have but one drink" he agreed, wiping his nose on the corner of his shirt. "Jus’ the one...but I ain't never stopped at one. Didn’t stop this time either. Not 'till I was flat broke again."

"As it so often goes," the reverend agreed. "But your circumstances are different this time. This time you are here – in the presence of God, and among men who can help you.” He looked at Newman. “Were all the stolen items recovered?”

“Yes,” Newman replied reluctantly. “He handed them over as soon as he was confronted. He - hadn’t been there long.”

Father Deighton nodded, “Then all has been made right.” He turned back to Holmes. “If you would keep from sinning again, repent. God is merciful, and bestows forgiveness upon those who truly desire it. Pray daily for strength and he shall grant you perseverance."

"Thank ye Father," Holmes said miserably, pathetic gratitude thick in his voice.

"God be with you," the vicar replied, and laid a blessing upon his head as Father Newman glowered.

***

  
  


That evening he disappeared into one of his boltholes - a rented room on the top floor of a weather beaten pub - and emerged a changed man; no longer a limping beggar but a salt-and-peppered haired sailor with a scar over one cheek. He sent word via his Irregulars to Watson, requesting the doctor meet him there.

Watson arrived with the evening, took a seat and ordered a drink for the sake of appearances, glancing briefly around the room in search of Holmes. After a moment's observation Holmes' swaggered over with the lurching steps of a man used to the feeling of waves rolling under his feet. "Sure a toff like you could spare the coin to buy man a drink," he slurred, and Watson looked up at him with an untroubled gaze, nose wrinkling faintly in distaste.

"I could, but why should I?"

Holmes felt a small flare of childish triumph at the success of his disguise but didn't linger over it; there were more important things. "Don't mind if I do," he gruffed out, helping himself to a chair and sitting down with a thump. When he spoke again, it was as himself. "Hardly any way to talk to an old friend, doctor. And keep your voice down; it is possible we are being observed."

Watson's eyebrows shot up. "You smell like bird shit," he said bluntly. "I can barely catch your scent under all that. What on earth have you been up to?"

"Tending birds," he replied, then got to the point. "Tell me about the particulars of your confrontation with Father Newman. Where and when did it take place? What was said?

Watson leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, watching the patrons of the bar as they scuttled about their infinitesimal lives. "I used to attend evening Mass, to keep up appearances. One night, over a month ago, Newman pulled me aside after the service for a quiet word."

"Was anyone else privy to the conversation?" Holmes interrupted and Watson shook his head.

"No, we were quite alone. He was agitated, angry even. He told me he knew what I was...I admit I didn't understand at first. But he kept on, saying I was evil and would lead the congregation astray. That I should burn in hellfire- that was pleasant."

"And at no time did he allude to the fact you were a vampire?"

"Not at all," Watson confirmed, "though he knew it, somehow. I could _feel_ that he knew that much; his emotions were quite strong."

"But you did not read his thoughts?" Holmes asked quickly, and Watson gave a self-depreciating laugh.

"I did not, though I suppose I should have. I- I do not use my powers often. I have found the best way to hide among mortals is to act as one of them as much as I am able."

"Unless you are drawing attention to yourself by leaving corpses lying about in conspicuous places, that is," Holmes remarked dryly. Watson did not flush, but only because it was likely that he _could_ not. His skin was dead; the stolen blood that sustained his strange life would not be wasted on warming his flesh.

"I admit I was in error," he said, and Holmes let it go. He was not here for sport.

"So you left the congregation rather than make yourself an object of gossip and speculation," he finished.

"I did. Though that was not the last I was to see of Father Newman. Langley began following me shortly thereafter and one night I gave him the slip and shadowed _him_ instead. I tracked him to the church and found him standing outside speaking to Newman and another man whom I didn't recognize; he was certainly not a patron. I've not the slightest idea who the stranger was or how he became mixed up in the affair, but it was then I knew for certain it was Newman who had set Langley upon me."

"And did you, by chance, lose any clients from the church shortly before Newman confronted you?"

Watson seemed to think about this, and after a moment's contemplation his face cleared in understanding. "I did, now you mention it. A young lady- Mrs. Lucy Montressor. She stopped coming one day quite suddenly, no notice. Of course, these things happen and I have plenty of clients, so I didn't think much of it at the time. But she wasn't at Mass that week, either. Before I had a chance to hear any news of her Newman accosted me, and then I had bigger problems to concern myself with."

Holmes nodded, unsurprised by this revelation. "Have you checked upon on her at all? I would take the first opportunity to do so."

"Why?" he asked, concern settling over his face like a shroud. "What do you think has happened to her?"

"I do not know, that is why you should look into it."

"But I would only be able to go in the evening, it would be improper for a bachelor to call upon a lady at such an hour," Watson protested, strangely conscientious of the rigors of English society, those wholly mortal customs.

A thin and cynical smile slit the corner of Holmes' mouth. "If she is dead there is no fear offending her delicate sensibilities," he replied brusquely.

"Dead? What-why!?" Watson cried, thoroughly shocked and Holmes moved to quiet him at once.

"Keep your voice _down_!" he hissed. "'Why' is still a matter of investigation. And I cannot say for certain that she is, only that it is a possibility which must be examined. I find myself...hobbled, in this matter." He looked at Watson meaningfully. "I need your assistance, old boy. I cannot bring the Yard into it; to do so would run a great risk of exposing you, and we both know how that ends. But I cannot be as many places as I am needed."

"'Old boy?'" Watson asked, shaking his head slightly with amusement as he settled again. "I suppose I could go ask after her. I know where she and her husband live."

"All things considered you must agree the title is a fitting one," Holmes remarked, taking a long drink of the doctor's ale.

Watson snorted. "Shall I call you Moses then?" he asked with a quiet laugh.

"Ridiculous. Were I lost in the desert it should not take me forty years to find my way out again." He glanced at the clock on the wall overhanging the bar. "It is time I returned to my post. Discover what you can about your former patient; I will send you word every other day. Should my missives stop do not hesitate to seek me out. You might start by looking in the clergy house cellar, behind the hidden door along the eastern wall."

"Be careful," Watson warned again, Holmes' words seeming to fill him once more with alarm. "If things are as dangerous as you think, perhaps we should abandon this whole thing."

"If things are as dangerous as I think, it will be a relief. I have reason to believe they are far worse." He stood, tipping his cap to Watson. "Should you need to send me word you will find several urchin children within easy sight of your surgery. Call upon any one of them; they will find me."

Watson looked more concerned than ever, eyes wide, his face intense and earnest. " _You_ send word if there is an emergency; I will come."

"If there is an emergency, I doubt there will be time for letter writing. Learn all you can," Holmes reminded him, then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got this chapter up fast as a gift to yakichou, in return for her amazing artwork.


	7. Parroting Scripture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none

Chapter 7: Parroting Scripture   


  
  


The next few days at the church passed in an eerie sort of calm for the detective, akin to being suspended in the center of a vortex while all around him raged an unseen storm. Parishioners hurried by him without greeting, curates whispered to each other as he passed and Father Newman avoided him completely, removing himself from Holmes' proximity whenever they happened to meet, his mouth shriveled up like a raisin.

For all that, not a word was spoken to _him_ about what had passed at the clergy house, though it was obvious tongues had been wagging freely enough among the congregation. Only Father Deighton refused to acknowledge his new status as parish pariah, showing him even greater kindness than before- offering Holmes extra food, and furnishing him with a fine wool coat he'd paid for himself.

It was perhaps no great surprise then that the vicar soon sent Newman on a three day Mission to the north, hinting to everyone that his brother of the cloth might be in better humor when he returned. During that time Holmes was left to himself more than was probably wise considering the penchant for larceny Holmes had built into Mr. Blevins' character, but Father Deighton kept quiet on the subject. Determined, it seemed, to treat him no differently than before.

True to his word, Holmes kept tertiary contact with Watson, though he had not yet received any news of the doctor's former patient.

The morning after Father Newman returned from his forced sabbatical he came to visit Holmes in his shed, the later only just having woken and readying himself to feed the birds. The priest asked after his health in a stiff manner, and Holmes responded by rote. Newman then lingered by the door, regarding Holmes in an odd silence, the shadows on his face filled with secrets. Finally he spoke, words seeming to be pried from his chest by a crowbar. “If it's not too much to ask... how long was drink your sin?"

Holmes had been expecting a question of this nature, and gave an indolent shrug. "Most me life, I s'pose," he began, scratching at his nose. " ‘Twas a family sin, if ye follow. Didn’t get bad till I crushed me leg, an then drink was all as helped the pain. Didn’t help nothin' else though. After I lost me Annie, I swore I'd ne'er touch another drop. Got meself proper work; I done her proud. But then masser went off ta Normandy, and I didn’t have work no more. Not till the vicar took me in."

"A terrible tale," Father Newman replied hollowly, "The sin of drink often lends itself to other sins, as you have discovered, but such transgressions can be washed away through the love of Christ.”

"Kin it?" he asked, letting himself appear curious.

"Yes, through true confession," the reverend affirmed, "and a trial of faith. But such honest repentance can be difficult to achieve."

Holmes made no answer but gave the priest his full attention and the man spoke on, his voice growing fervent, eyes ablaze with a light other men might call zealotry. "Many a man comes to the church seeking forgiveness because he fears for his soul, fears the judgement that will be cast upon him, but such men as this are not truly willing to repent and atone for their sins. When a man seeks forgiveness out of fear alone a lie stains his heart, for his motives are impure. A servant of God such as myself or Father Deighton may forgive a sinner all other trespasses, but that one is beyond our reach. To truly accept the love of God and the forgiveness of Christ, a man must let go of all fear."

Well, that put things into a certain perspective. "Ne'er met a man who wasn't afeared 'o somethin’."

"This is true, “ Newman agreed, fixing Holmes with his strange gaze. “which is why a true confession is hard to come by. When His judgment is nigh, every man becomes a devout servant of God.”

Holmes kept his opinions on that to himself, scattering the feed and making soft, cooing noises at the birds while they pecked happily at the ground.

"Father Deighton believes you can be turned from the path of sin," Newman continued, seeming unbothered by the silence. "And I believe him. Will you let me help you overcome your earthly fears, and embrace the love of God?"

"Aye, if ye think it ought ta be done,” Holmes replied a bit doubtfully and the reverend laughed like a broken recorder.

"I do. The drink is a strong tool of Satan, and it will call to you again. But through the blood of Christ you may be saved. 'But if we walk with God in the Light, blood can cleanse us of all sin,'" the priest quoted.

" _Cleansed of all sin,_ " the parrot repeated, then let out an all-too-human sounding shriek. 

Holmes had a part to play here and it was not the role of a smart man so he simply shrugged and nodded, ignoring the bird. "A'right then."

"Excellent," Newman said with a smile that was profound in it's emptiness.

Holmes continued on with his chores.

  
  


***

  
  


That night Holmes slipped away again, and in the morning Mr. Blevins was absent from his post. The money in his room remained untouched in an old tin, but his new coat was missing- it would be found later that day in an alley not far from the church, grey wool marred with a streak of blood. But of the man himself, there was no sign.

Despite what Stamford might have said to the contrary, Holmes had no trouble quitting a game while he was ahead, and Father Newman's interest seemed to be growing a bit too keen. In any case, he had learned as much as was convenient in the role of aviculturist.

Upon entering Baker Street he was immediately accosted by Mrs. Hudson, who berated him soundly for being gone so long without word, flapping about him like a maddened bird as she shoved a letter into his hands.

"A doctor stopped by a few days ago," she said, thrusting the letter at him. "He left this for you. Where have you even _been_?"

"Plying my trade, nanny," he replied coolly, ignoring her fluttering as he glanced at the plain white envelope. "And securing your rent. Do be a dear and bring up some tea."

She wrinkled her nose in distaste as she inspected him, head to toe. "You'd best not smell like a sewer by the time I come up. Go take a bath."

"I will not be ordered about," he replied archly, even though he had intended to bathe anyway. The last week or so had left him smelling a bit ripe even by his somewhat lax standards.

Mrs. Hudson only huffed at him, unimpressed. "I do not serve tea to vagabonds, Mister Holmes- and I certainly do not rent them rooms. Go wash, or there will be no tea."

He sighed theatrically and conceded the battlefield, retreating up the steps to his rooms. London would fall before he admitted it, but he'd missed her tea. He paused on the landing, turning back to her with a lift of his brow. "The doctor- I don't suppose you recall his name, by chance?"

"His name?" she parroted dumbly, a frown settling at the edge of her mouth. "Of course, it was-" she hesitated, blinking rapidly as her mind groped about like a hand fumbling in the dark.

"I thought not," he replied mildly, and vanished up the steps.

He had intended to open the letter immediately of course, but upon entering his rooms he instantly went on guard, instincts keyed up and senses keen. Things were not as he had left them. Someone had been there, and it was not Mrs. Hudson. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the cluttered parlor for signs of disturbance. The state of his living space was such that no one should be able to find anything at all, let alone perceive if anything had been tampered with. But to Holmes, everything was in it's place; even if the place was an unconventional one.

Observations: Window closed but unlocked, chair moved a half foot to the left. The papers on his desk had been bothered, and there were several investigative tools which had been handled and set down again. Nothing was missing, he had not been burgled. But someone had been looking through his things.

He crossed to the window and examined the glass, unsurprised to find a lack of fingerprints. Fingerprints required oil from the skin to adhere to a surface. If one were wearing gloves - or the skin in question had no oil - there would be no transference. There was however a bit of dirt on the windowsill and upon the floor inside the room, but nothing else. No rope fibers, nor marks where a grapple hook might have taken hold.

Conclusion: It was Watson, or it was a creature of similar strength and wall scaling ability, which left no prints and no scent, and who took a keen interest in his affairs. "I do hope this is your handiwork, doctor," he muttered to himself. The trouble was, of course, that he could not implement the next part of his investigation until he knew for certain. And he would not know until evening.

John Watson had the most extraordinarily inconvenient sleeping schedule.

He sighed, drummed his fingers on the corner of the window in frustration, then sat heavily in his chair and grabbed his pipe, tearing open the letter and scanning it's contents.

_"I went to watch my former patient at her home. She is alive and seems well, as does her husband. Unfortunately there was no chance for me to speak to her alone, as Mister Montressor was always present in the evening and early morning. Please, stay safe and alert me when you get this message.- J.W."_

He exhaled a plume of smoke and picked up a pen, twirling it around his fingers for a few moments as he thought. Then he began to write.

_"Good to know the lady is alive, that concludes this portion of my investigation. Meet me in Regent's Park after you receive this letter. - S.H."_

He dare not risk exposing information over open channels until he knew for certain who and what had been inside his flat. The mostly likely suspect was Watson, but that was not a certainty, and until he could be certain he must treat the threat as legitimate.

He sent the missive on its way via his Irregulars, then went to wash.


	8. Midnight Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none

Chapter 8: Midnight Rendezvous  


  
  


The park was quiet that time of night, full moon shining valiantly through a thick blanket of clouds and Watson sat on a bench beneath a sprawling willow tree, staring out into the darkening evening, eyes bright and watchful. It did not matter that there was very little light; he could see in the dark as well as any nocturnal creature, and night was an old friend. In his mind he was replaying a few hazy memories of having visited this very place when he was a young man, warm blooded and alive.

So many years ago now, the images called forth were muzzy and sepia-tinged with age. It had not been a park then, but sprawling farmland dotted here and there with copses - crown holdings belonging to King George. There were no green lawns, no broad avenues lined with manicured flower beds or sculpted fountains, no willow trees with their branches like fingers trailing in the water.

It had been warm and humid that day in his memory, and his lace cravat had been terribly uncomfortable; over-starched and scratchy. But fashion had been different back then, too. So much had changed in a century... he turned, his reminiscing interrupted by the distant sound of Holmes' approach, the steady beat of the detective's tireless heart now a familiar sound that seemed to quicken his own sluggish pulse. 

He stood as Holmes drew near and was pleased to discover the man no longer smelled of pigeons. "You've washed," he noted, and found himself smiling for no good reason.

"Did you visit my flat last night?" Holmes demanded immediately, and he was _not_ smiling, his whole body strung taut as piano wire.

Watson paused, taken slightly aback, his initial pleasure at seeing Holmes evaporating in wake of the detective's obvious ill-humor. As a vampire his skin did not flush, but he felt embarrassed all the same, and coupled with the feeling came one of annoyance that Holmes could engender such a reaction in him in the first place.

"Yes. I apologize - I was looking for you."

"You had just seen me. Ergo, I assume you have urgent news." Holmes peered at him expectantly, and Watson's discomfort grew.

"I was concerned for your well being," he said defensively. "What have you discovered at the church?"

Holmes' face tightened, and Watson felt uncommonly like a school boy who had disappointed a favored teacher. "A good many things. _Do_ you have anything to tell me? Or am I wasting even more time while a murderer prowls the city?"

"No! Of course not-" Watson fumbled; nothing about this meeting was going as expected. He had thought Holmes - if not exactly happy to see him - might at least be _willing_. But Holmes was acting as if the whole thing were a nuisance, a distraction from the great importance of his work - despite the fact that the meeting had been arranged by the man himself. (More frustratingly, he was starting to make Watson feel it, too.) "My former client - I managed to speak with her yesterday evening. Her husband is the one who ordered her to stop coming to my practice. She says he thinks that we were involved in an affair together. I find it suspicious the man himself did not confront me, if that was the case."

Holmes looked no less nettled as he took a seat on the bench beside him. "Is that all? It is a plausible story. Men who harbor suspicions of unfaithfulness do not always let those suspicions overwhelm to the point of violence - or confrontation where violence is a possible outcome."

But Watson shook his head. "I could smell her fear easily enough; she _was_ afraid of me - terrified even. She bore up well and her story _seemed_ likely but she didn't believe her own words. I don't know why she would lie, nor what has frightened her so but there is a reason her husband has her under such close scrutiny. We weren't alone five minutes before he came in search of her. I slipped away before he could spot me. I thought it for the best." He waited, hoping Holmes found his information useful, though he wasn't entirely sure why he felt the need to prove himself to a mortal, except that somehow Holmes had the power to make him feel like an ignorant child, and not a powerful, supernatural being of folklore. Watson didn't like that at all but it seemed there was nothing to be done about it.

"You think she believes you are a vampire... or just a murderer?"

Watson shrugged helplessly. "I'm not sure, both perhaps. I don't know if she somehow suspects something, and told her husband, who told Father Newman, or if it's the other way around..."

"Ah yes, Father Newman. How long have you been attending Mass at that particular church?"

"A few years. I don't stay long enough for anyone to notice I fail to age."

"Hmmm." Holmes considered that, watching the trees as the wind swept through their branches. Watson regarded him in silence for a long moment, wondering what the man was thinking about in that turbulent whitewater of a mind Watson had only glimpsed.

"I apologize again for your flat," he heard himself say, and found that he quite meant it. He wanted Holmes to think well of him.

Holmes inhaled, eyes narrowing slightly. "You have cost me a day's worth of investigation. I had told you I would keep in contact."

Watson was sorry for that; he couldn't explain the extreme whims he suddenly found himself subject to when it came to Holmes. He told himself it was duty. He told himself it was loyalty to Stamford.

"I'm sorry," he said yet again. The last person he'd apologized to so profusely had been Stamford himself, though the man had no longer been alive to hear the words... Watson pushed that thought quickly away. "What are you planning to do now?"

"I have many places to be; things which must be done. I must find who among Mr. Kramer's associates had means and motive to kill him. I must find out more about the unfortunate Mr. Langley and his ties to the church. I should also like to speak with your former patient myself - you should provide me with the lady's address, by the way - and of course, the vicar must be interviewed."

"You just spent over a week at the church," Watson said, slightly confused.

"Yes, as a hired hand. Next time we meet, it will be as a detective."

"You are not worried he will recognize you?"

"Did _you_ recognize me?"

"I would have, had you smelled like yourself," he snorted.

"Well, it remains to be seen if the reverend has your exceptional olfactory glands but even if he did, as you've pointed out; I have washed since he last knew me."

"Your disguises are rather good," Watson conceded. "Tell me more. What do you suspect is going on?"

"I believe the destitutes around the church are being targeted, lured within, and killed."

Well, that was horrible. "Good Lord... whatever for?"

"That is precisely the question I am attempting to answer."

"And what evidence draws you to this conclusion?" Watson asked, full of questions. He wanted to know everything Holmes knew. He wanted to be a part of this thing, whatever it was. Wanted to be on equal footing with the detective; something more than just another hapless client. He was unused to knowing less than someone else, and it bothered him. And somewhere, deep down, he wanted to prove himself to Holmes.

"A secret room in the cellar of the clergy house, and a parrot."

Watson glanced at him askance, and were it not for the fact he had touched Holmes' mind and knew the great breadth and depths of it himself, he would think the man was sporting with him. But Holmes was not sporting.

"A parrot?" he repeated dumbly, because while he had indeed glimpsed into that raging maelstrom of thought, it had not bestowed upon him any enhanced powers of understanding. It had been no more than a glance anyway; any longer and he'd risked being pulled in, pulled under and drowned in the constant flood of sensory data that poured into Holmes' mind from every direction and battered him ceaselessly. Every scent, every noise, every glance was a full-on assault. Each trickle of information became a stream of data the required processing and cataloging, each stream running on until it met up with others, became great flowing tributaries of information, vast rivers of knowledge all rushing into the immense sea of his memory.

Holmes would be able to find almost every drop, if given enough time. Most other men would be nonfunctional lunatics under the weight of such a mind. Holmes was a functional one.

Fascinating as it was, this secret knowledge of the inner workings of Holmes' mind did not help Watson understand the importance of a parrot.

"The vicar keeps his parrot in the shed, with the doves."

Watson blinked. Holmes certainly seemed to think he had explained himself, but Watson couldn't decipher the answer. "And that... means what?" he prompted.

Holmes sighed, a heavy weight attached to the end of it and Watson squirmed, hating that he did so, hating whatever power Holmes seemed to have over him, and the ease with which his body betrayed him whenever it found itself in the detective's proximity.

"He is fond of the bird," Holmes continued after a moment, "but it is being neglected in the shed, rather than kept in the house where it was no doubt used to being before it was moved. Nor is the change a helpful one; it has pulled out half its feathers in distress."

"Why move it, then?" Watson mused aloud, and Holmes glanced at him finally, his eyes like dark pools Watson couldn't see the bottom of.

"For the same reason he employs only one servant, and she is not allowed to stay past dark." Another long moment passed as Watson tried to piece together whatever riddle had just been handed to him, but Holmes took pity on him at last. "Parrots are mimics, Watson. They imitate the sounds around them, often to an uncanny degree. And Father Newman cannot afford any witnesses. Not even the vicar's bird."

A chill ran down Watson's spine, an all too human reaction. The pieces finally slid together. "You think he lures indigents to him with the promise of employment - as he did Blevins - holds them prisoner in the cellar, then kills them?"

And Holmes said simply, "Yes."

"But you do not know why?"

"I have suspicions. But one must always be wary of forming theories before one has all the facts."

"And what facts do you have?"

"I know Father Newman came to Saint Cyprian's church a little over three months ago. I know shortly after that, the unfortunates in the area began disappearing with greater frequency. I know those destitutes who make their home around the church refuse to step foot in the place, hence why Blevins - a stranger to the area - was singled out. I know a channel was recently cut into the stone floor of the secret room in the cellar, and iron rings fastened to the wall. The maid leaves before dusk, the parrot is kept in the shed, and there are no visitors to the clergy house after nightfall. And finally, I know Father Newman took entirely too keen of an interest in _you_."

Watson frowned deeply. "There are subsets of the church that believe in the occult- it is not unreasonable to think they might believe in vampires as well. He could be from one of those sects."

"I do not think so," Holmes said with damnable certainty.

"What _do_ you think?"

"I do not think Newman is a priest at all."

Watson's brows arched high upon his forehead. "An interesting charge. What makes you say so?"

"A number of small observations. For example, he does not attend Sunday Mass, and he misquotes his scriptures." At Watson's questioning look Holmes tilted his head back and recited, "'But if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin.' John. 1:7; Newman got it wrong."

"If he is not a real priest, what is he doing posing as a man of the cloth?" Watson wondered aloud.

Holmes was not looking at him as he replied, "That question is precisely why I need to continue my investigation."

"Of course," Watson said. "And you think he will reveal things to you as yourself, instead of the homeless man you impersonated?"

"What he doesn't reveal will be just as pertinent."

"'The secrets we keep tell more than the truths we speak?'" Watson quoted with a smile, but good humor seemed lost on the detective tonight, his face shrouded in shadow and his countenance grim. Holmes was only half listening to him anyway, his attention focused elsewhere - on the case and the church and the problems before him.

"Sometimes. But it never hurts to have facts to fill the silence."

"I believe you can learn something from him... you learned quite a bit from me our first night."

A muscle twitched near Holmes' eye. Watson was certain it meant something, but he could not fathom it. Holmes was as much a cipher to him now as he had been a month ago.

"If I didn't think I could learn anything I wouldn't bother. There are half a dozen other places I am needed."

"I can help you," Watson offered suddenly, sensing the wave of painful nostalgia that washed over Holmes; vague impressions of Stamford, feelings of loss. "You don't have to do this entirely on your own. It's my problem and I dragged you into it -- let me look into Kramer. You say the man was fond of billiards; such places are open well after dark. I can ask about, find out his favorite haunts."

Holmes seemed to consider that. "It would be helpful," he admitted at length.

"I can find out about Langley's past as well, if you need me to," he volunteered again, wanting to do right by the detective, to make amends for having ever involved him in the first place.

"You will spread yourself thin before the night is over."

"And you aren't?"

Holmes dismissed the comment with a graceful turn of his head. "This is what I do. It is my...natural state, if one is inclined to look at it thus. But it is not yours."

Watson pondered how Holmes considered his natural state to be overworked and overwhelmed with data like some kind of machine. He was a marvel - not just to look at, but to hear those racing surface thoughts.

"No ordinary man can survive in such a way," Watson said without thinking, and it was both a compliment and an admonishment.

"Flatterer," Holmes replied, voice devoid of humor.

"I'm sure everyone is similarly impressed at first."

"I'm sure there are many who would marvel upon their first meeting a vampire as well... before they saw the fangs, and considered the perils of closer acquaintance."

"Perils." Watson looked thoughtfully at Holmes as the moonlight broke through a cloud to shine like silver on his raven hair, haloing him with a soft glow. For a moment he looked disastrously beautiful, a work of art painted by some forgotten Master. "Aside from your work, what other perils are there surrounding you, Holmes?"

"Nothing that is of any consequence to anyone, anymore." Holmes stopped talking and for a moment the world fell soft and silent around them, something delicate in the air but then Holmes stood abruptly and Watson felt as if a spell had been broken, like he had woke blinking and confused from a years long sleep. "The night wears on doctor, and there is work to be done." Holmes pointed at him. "If you are to be of any use to me do not waste what little time you have in idle conversation. Go, learn what you can, send me a missive at dawn. Each day brings delay I can ill afford."

"You rush to save the lives of those who cannot even repay you," Watson said, standing as well. He noted Holmes' abrupt change of subject and tucked it away in his mind for further rumination.

"And what kind of monster would I be if I demanded payment for saving a life?" Holmes asked, the words thrown over his shoulder like a handful of salt. "Adieu, doctor."

"What kind indeed?" Watson asked softly, watching him go with a bemused smile. Then he too slipped away, retracting the path of Kramer's last night alive.


	9. The Vicar's Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: none

Chapter 9: The Vicar's Man  


  
  


The next morning when Holmes visited the church it was as himself, though on the whole he appeared more assembled than was his habit; cravat rumpled but tied, and hair slightly less rebellious than usual. It was as close as he got to formality these days (not that he'd ever given much of a damn about it anyway).

He did not go directly to the vicar, instead he simply flagged down the first person in black he found and introduced himself.

That man happened to be Father Newman.

"Good morning,” the Father said in the same deadened tones as before, offering his hand. "I am Father Newman. What brings you to our church today?"

"Good morning," Holmes replied, not taking his hand because he rarely did, "my name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a detective." His face he was careful to keep out of the papers. His name however was well known in connection with the police. He watched for a reaction.

The clergyman blinked dully. "That name sounds familiar,” he said after a stretch of silence, “Have you visited before?"

"I have not. However, I am interested in a man who has. I understand there was recently working here an indigent by the name of Blevins."

"Blevins, yes." The clergyman's face furrowed. "He was in our employ for a time, but he's run off, I'm afraid."

"I do not think so. I believe however his disappearance is linked to several others in the area I am investigating."

Father Newman leaned his head back slightly, appearing deep in thought. "Sherlock Holmes...I remember now, I've seen your name in the paper."

"Indeed. I understand Blevins had only recently found work with the church; if it is not too bold, might I inquire as to the nature of his duties?"

The priest shrugged. "It is no secret; he tended to Father Deighton’s birds. I can show you, if you like. Would you walk with me?" he asked, gesturing in the direction of the clergy house and Holmes nodded amicably.

"I should also like to view where he slept. How long had he worked here?"

"Just over a week," Newman said in his strange monotone voice. "Here - we can speak to the vicar on our way, he will be grateful to hear someone is looking into Blevins' disappearance."

Newman guided him to the back area of the church, the same small kitchen Father Deighton had brought him to when he thought his name was Blevins and there too was the vicar, pouring over a small, black leathered bible with a golden crucifix engraved on the cover.

"Ah, Brother," Newman said, smiling like a puppet. "I had just come in search of you. This is Mister Sherlock Holmes - a detective."

"Good morning," Holmes said, inclining his head in greeting.

The vicar removed his reading glasses and peered at Holmes with interest. "A detective? What brings you here this morning? Is it about the unfortunate fellow found on our roof a while ago?"

"It may be related, but my chief interest concerns the disappearance of a man by the name of Blevins. I understand he recently acquired work here at the church. The good father was just taking me to examine his rooms."

"His rooms?" the vicar repeated, sounding puzzled. "He slept in the shed behind the clergy house. I suppose it could do no harm to take a look. Father Newman tells me the man himself has run off."

"Perhaps. But there has been a rash of disappearances among the underclass in this area; I suspect Blevins may be the latest victim."

"You've been hired to investigate the underclass?" the vicar asked mildly, sounding slightly disbelieving.

"No, my work on this case is decidedly pro bono. However, like you I occasionally employ the destitute to help me in small endeavors, and they are often an excellent source of information. I know many of them in this area and their movements are visible to me while they go unnoticed by the general public. I did not know Mister Blevins personally but his disappearance was brought to my attention. I find the fact his coat was found while the man was not to be highly suspicious. It is still cold this time of year; a man with so little would not have left it behind."

"That is true," the vicar said thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose you had best have a look around." He turned to Newman. "Please show the detective to the shed. We must do all we can to help."

Newman bowed his head in acquiescence. "Of course, brother." He then guided Holmes through the church yard towards the shed, frosted grass crunching like glass beneath their feet, and their misty breath hanging in the air as they walked. Newman showed Holmes to Blevins' corner, and the sad straw mattress that had been his bed. Holmes examined everything as if seeing it for the first time while Newman waiting just inside the door.

"Has anything been touched?"

“No,” Father Newman said. “Everything is as he left it. I had thought he simply wandered off. The indigent do make a habit of it.”

Holmes picked up a tin and gave it a light shake; it rattled with the unmistakable sound of coinage. "His wages for the week I assume...curious he would leave it behind, don't you think?

"I hadn’t noticed," Newman replied, sounding bored. "But as I said, no one has disturbed his things."

"I should like to examine the church next," said Holmes, and on it went. He was shown to all the public places he asked to see; it was only when he requested a tour of the clergy house itself he met his first resistance.

“Mister Blevins was not allowed in house proper,” Newman said in a frosted tone, the first emotion he'd shown since Holmes arrived. “He broke in once in an attempt to rob the place. He was caught, and Father Deighton forgave him. But after that he was refused admittance until he had properly repented.”

Holmes marked that, continuing with his soft investigation and innocent questions and allowed himself to appear satisfied by the answers given. Finally, they were back at the beginning, Holmes standing in the chapel with Father Deighton as the priest listened to him talk with a grave expression. 

"Thank you for your patience, Father. I can now say I am more certain than ever that Mister Blevins met with an unfortunate end. This is a good church, your employees are satisfied, your wages fair. You gave Mister Blevins food and shelter, and from all appearances he was grateful for the work. Why would such a man disappear into the night, leaving both money and coat behind, with no word to anyone? Something is not right."

"I agree," Father Deighton said. "Poor fellow must have met some terrible evil out there..."

Newman glided up beside them smooth as a serpent in the Garden. "I will say the man had a problem with drinking," he reported in a low voice. "It was an old vice, and the cause of his banishment from the clergy house. Perhaps he simply succumbed to the devils drink once more."

"It is a common weakness among the less fortunate," Holmes agreed. "But if he were headed to the bottle, he would have taken money as well."

"It it is possible he found another source of income."

"Perhaps," Holmes replied, appearing to give the notion consideration, fingers resting thoughtfully against his lips. "But this is only the most recent disappearance. The numbers are imprecise; the destitute are by nature transient, a quality that makes them nearly impossible to track but I believe there have been as many as half a dozen such disappearances in the area within the last few months. “

"In this area? That is concerning if true," the vicar said. "Aside from the church itself, the homeless do not often gather in this neighborhood. We do what we can for them, but..." his voice trailed off.

"But it is rare many of them stay in one place for long," Father Newman interjected, picking up the thread of the coversation. 

"Indeed, thus the difficulty in solving this mystery." Holmes pressed his hands together neatly, gave them a pleasant smile. "Well, thank you again gentlemen. I will of course keep you informed of any future developments." He started to leave but turned back, "Ah, there is one other question. If it is not an imposition, what can you tell me of the unfortunate Mister Langley?"

The two priests shared a tilted look. "He was a member of my congregation," the vicar said sadly. "A troubled man, with a troubled soul and his past sins wore heavily upon him. He joined the army at a young age, and while there saw and committed many horrors of which he could not forget. Father Newman and I did our best to help him, but..." He gave a trembling sigh and Newman stepped quickly forward, placing a steadying hand beneath his arm, and displaying a level of concern that had been absent in every other interaction Holmes had observed between them.

"Easy, Brother." Newman steadied the old priest, then turned towards Holmes. "I must ask that you refrain from upsetting Father Deighton. Mister Langley's death was terrible enough, and he has already been questioned extensively-"

"It is quite all right, Jacob," Father Deighton interjected, regaining his composure. "Mister Holmes is doing no more than the Lord has tasked him with." He offered Holmes an apologetic smile. "Forgive Brother Newman his temper," he said. "He is young and bold, and thinks only of my welfare. Please, if you have questions about Langley, I will hear them and answer as best I can, though I have spoken already to the police."

Holmes face was serene, and gave nothing away. "Unfortunately I do not know what questions the police have asked," he replied. "I am not affiliated with them on that particular case and thus am not privy to the details of their work. But as I am here and the murder has yet to be solved, I saw no harm in asking. Idle questions often open doors to the most surprising places."

The vicar gestured for him to continue while Newman looked on with thinly veiled suspicion.

"When was the last time you saw Mister Langley alive?"

"It was the day before his death. He had come to me for confession." Deighton gave Holmes an appraising look. "I am sure you know I can share nothing of what he told me in confidence. "

"Of course," Holmes replied smoothly, obsequious lilt to his voice. "But did you at that time have any reason to fear for his well-being?"

"I had long feared for Mister Langley's well-being," the priest replied, "As I said, he was a troubled man. But I had no reason to assume he would be murdered. I will not lie and say he bought joy and happiness to all who knew him, but nor can I believe he was capable of incurring the sort of enmity that would have cost him his life."

"Hmmm," Holmes replied, "and what was his trade?"

"I believe he worked in a shop."

"And what of his _other_ trade?" he asked, something knowing in his eyes.

The vicar blinked, taken aback. "I am sorry Mister Holmes, I don't believe I follow you."

Holmes' smile was a forgery, smooth and transparent. "Allow me to elucidate then. Nelson Langley made his living chiefly as a hired gun; a bounty hunter and - on occasion - a mercenary. Not entirely a legal profession, and certainly one that might incur a good deal of 'enmity'."

To his credit, the priest didn't deny it, this time. "Langley was trying to put all that behind him, and walk a more righteous path."

"And how hard was he trying?"

Father Deighton's face went sallow with anger. "Mister Holmes-" he began, but Newman stepped forward, interrupting.

"I _might_ have some information in that regard," he said, and Holmes turned to him expectantly.

"Brother?" The vicar asked, eyebrows twitching in confusion, but Newman only hurried on.

"It is no more than speculation, understand."

Holmes lifted his brow. “Indeed? And did you share this speculation with the police?”

Newman shook his head. “I was on Mission work in the north part of the country when Langley died. By the time I returned, things had quieted. As I was not present at the time I was not interviewed, and as I had no sure evidence for my suspicions I did not believe I would be taken seriously. In any case, it seemed unchristian to cast such aspersions against a man’s character without being certain.”

"Indeed," Holmes replied a bit dryly. “Then take me into your confidence and I will determine whether or not to involve the police; thus your priestly aspirations will remain unsullied.”

Father Newman's smile was made of smoke. “Very well. As you know, my confidence as a priest is absolute. Hearsay, on the other hand..."

"And what did you hear?" Holmes asked, wishing the man would come to the point.

"I had _heard_ one of our parishioners was causing a bit of trouble among the congregation. There were, I believe, allegations made of adultery between this man and another's wife."

"And who is this troublesome rogue?"

"A doctor, Doctor Jackson. I believe he runs an evening clinic somewhere near Cavendish. In any case, I confronted him about the rumors, and soon after he left of his own accord - that was some few weeks before Langley died. He made no confession before he went, nor farewells, and that might - to some - be taken as evidence of his guilt. It is _possible_ the cuckolded husband might have spoken to Langley and asked him to frighten the doctor off. If there was a confrontation between Jackson and Langley it could have ended in the later's death."

"Why would he require Langley to frighten Jackson away if the man had already gone?" Holmes asked reasonably, and Newman spread his hands helplessly. 

"Mister Holmes, I cast my suspicions in the kindest light possible. I do not wish to believe members of our congregation are hiring people to kill each other."

"I see. And what was the husband's name?"

Newman face was a darkened mirror that reflected nothing. "I've forgotten," he said boldly, and the corner of Holmes' mouth twisted up.

"You remembered Jackson's name easily enough," he countered.

"Doctor Jackson is no longer a member of this congregation," the priest reminded him, his voice firm. "But perhaps if you speak with him, he will give you the name I cannot."

And now finally, Holmes had all the information he required. “I will look into it, when I've the time,” Holmes promised. “Good day, gentlemen.” It was not lost on him that if Newman indeed knew Watson was a vampire, his intentions amounted to little more than sending Holmes straight to his death...and there would be one less detective in London sniffing around the church and asking questions about missing men.


	10. "Deductive Ability: Nill"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger Warnings: none

_"While it must now be apparent to anyone reading this journal that a fair bit of inventiveness and prevarication went into crafting my stories for the Strand, let it be assured there are certain aspects of which I was wholly truthful. For instance, Holmes often took great delight in pointing out my many failings of observation, and while I like to think my skills in that area improved over time, he never ceased to sport with me whenever I attempted to apply his methods to my own life. I can say fairly however, he had not always found it such an endearing quality... "_

Chapter 10:"Deductive Ability: Nill" 

  
  


It was not yet noon when Holmes left the church and so he returned briefly to Baker Street for a bit of lunch before continuing with the investigation. Stamford was no longer there to badger him about such things as sleep and food, and so he was forced to keep track of these frivolities himself.

He didn’t always succeed, but on the whole, he liked to think he was making an effort.

But when he arrived in the parlor he found a letter awaiting him, having been delivered by one of his Irregulars not a handful of minutes after he had left that morning. He opened it immediately and was greeted with Watson’s elegant, somewhat archaic scrawl:

_"I have looked into Mr. Kramer; his associates miss him. They claim he was a quiet but superstitious man and kept mostly to himself, save for a great love of billiards." -J.W._

Holmes sighed, scowling down at the bit of paper in something like offense. He was forced to concede that however perfect a predator Watson may be, he was utter shit as a detective. The doctor had managed to tell him precisely nothing about Kramer he did not already know.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and forsook lunch in favor of going to find out something _useful_ about the man. Like an address.

At least Stamford would have had the presence of mind to find out where Kramer _lived_.

Fortunately, Watson had at least had the presence of mind to included the address of the billiards hall which was the focus of his fruitless inquiry, and thus spared Holmes the trouble of tracking it down.

***

It was a rather ordinary sort of gentleman’s club. Not the highest class and certainly not the lowest. A solid, respectable sort of place filled with solid, respectable men of the working class who lost their money to one another at well-used snooker tables amid the familiar scents of cigar smoke and brandy.

He was not there long enough to ask more than a few cursory questions when he was approached by a broad-shouldered man in a waistcoat of dark burgundy. He’d had his eye on this man for several minutes now, because the man clearly had an eye on him as well, his attempts at sublty utterly lost on the detective.

“I hear you’re asking about Michael Kramer,” the man said, tossing caution to wind at last.

“What can you tell me of him?” Holmes asked, and the man hiked an eyebrow at the boldness of the question, Holmes’ lack of concern for propriety or guile.

“That depends on why you’re asking, friend.” Holmes studied the man, grey eyes like indurated clay and the subcutaneous shape to the breast pocket of his waistcoat that bespoke of a hidden firearm. He carried himself with the causal confidence of a man not unused to violent encounters.

“I’m investigating his murder.”

The man seemed only mildly surprised. “Investigating - I see. You’re a detective?” he asked, running a cursory eye over him. “Don’t look like a Yard man.”

“I’m not,” Holmes assured him, and the stranger paused at that, gaze going narrow and intense. Then he shrugged, examining his fingernails with practiced nonchalance. “Kramer was a friend of mine. What do you want to know?”

“Do you know who he was planning to meet the night of his death?”

The man smiled wryly. “If I knew that, I’d have gone to the police already.”

“And did he say anything odd, the last week or so of his life?”

The smile shifted, became full of broken edges. “You must not have known him. Kramer was always saying odd things; he was an odd fellow.”

“Odd enough to believe in vampires?” Holmes asked, laying down the gambit.

The man’s eyes met his with a crack, telegraphing shock for the span of a heartbeat, hand flexing towards his breast pocket before he mastered himself, curling his fingers into a fist and forcing his hand back to his side. He looked away, frustration in the line of his shoulders, the irascible set of his jaw. “Kramer believed in a lot of things.”

“And what do you believe?” Holmes pressed, relentless as any hound that's caught a sent.

He man looked at him again, eyes and voice steady. “I believe you ought to be damn careful who you talk to, if you’re going to be following Kramer’s trail.”

Holmes could sense the truth somewhere just ahead of him, and pushed on. “Is that what got him killed? Did he talk to the wrong person?”

“I don’t know what got Kramer killed,” the man said, and Holmes at least believed that much.

His tone was as reasonable as any good-hearted man. “Then share with me what you do know. What was the ritual he was attempting to preform when he died?”

“You’re asking some very dangerous questions, _Mr. Holmes,_ " the man said, placing a deliberate emphasis on his name.

The barest of smiles frosted the edges of Holmes’ mouth as things that had only been suspected were at last confirmed. “Then let me ask a less dangerous one: where did he live? Provide me with an address, and I’ll take my leave.”

The man considered Holmes’ proposal, finally relenting with a shrug. “He rented some rooms over on Swinton street, near Regent’s square.”

“Thank you,” Holmes said. “You have been most helpful. Oh- and tell my brother I am perfectly fine, and do not require surveillance." 

He left, and did not turn to gauge the man's reaction. 

***

  
  


It was mid-afternoon when he arrived in Regent’s square, the streets busy with pedestrians and traffic. The area around the square was one of the more affluent areas of Camden borough and it showed among the local populace, men in fur collared coats tapping their silver-tipped canes on the cobblestones, and women in taffeta gowns and bustles edged with lace. Whatever work Kramer did, it paid him well enough. 

Casual inquiry of the local shop owners brought him to Kramer’s landlady, a somewhat dour looking woman with wiry grey hair piled high on her head, fastened with an array of butterfly shaped pins that would have made her look ridiculous if not for the severe expression on her face. 

“Yes?” she asked tersely. 

"Good afternoon," he said with an elegant bow, "I'm looking for Michael Kramer's landlady." 

"You've found her,” she replied, looking none too happy with the fact. “What of it? He still owes rent; I don't care if he's dead.” 

Holmes immediately saw the way to her heart. "Well, I may be able to help you there. How much does he owe?" 

"Why? Are you a relative?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "He told me he had no relatives." 

"I am not; I am a detective investigating his murder." 

Her lips pressed together in a way that coupled with the pins made Holmes think rather uncharitably of a frog. "Well, is that going to help the rent get paid? Are _you_ going to pay it?" 

"If you let me into his flat so that I may examine it, yes." 

Five minutes later he was standing in Kramer’s parlor. 

***

  
  


"The police already came by a few days ago," the woman told him. "Not sure what you're expecting to find." 

"We shall see," Holmes replied, looking around with mild interest. 

It was a somewhat cluttered space; not quite as disastrous as his own but the man had clearly been a bachelor as well as a profound bibliophile. Several cases of books lined one wall, with more of them piled on the floor and table and anywhere else room could be found. Holmes walked over to a sturdy looking wardrobe, opened it and was unsurprised to find it crammed with more books again, several falling loose of the pile and tumbling down to his feet. 

He bent to pick one up, the words ‘Ancient Alchemy’ printed in gold across the blood red leather. He glanced at the other books, unsurprised to find most of them relating to various religions, myths and the occult. On a rosewood table from the Indian region of Bengal stood a metal bowl surrounded by the same strange chalk pattern he had observed in the alleyway. Inside were the remains of burnt sage and cedar, the scent strong enough it had not yet faded from the room. 

"Were you present when the police made their inspection?" He asked the woman, stepping over to examine the bookshelf. 

She nods. "Yes, of course. Watched them wander around just like you." 

The flat certainly looked as though it had fallen victim to the Yard’s particularly destructive brand of ‘wandering’. Three separate officers at least had trampled back and forth, making a mess of things. 

"Did they remove anything?" He went to the most well-used books first, those with a focus on vampires specifically. Kramer had thought he was dealing with a supernatural evil. He would have researched; he would have wanted to be certain. 

And he definitely would have taken notes. 

"Think they took his bank ledgers," she replied vaguely.

"Bank ledgers," he muttered, shaking his head. None of this had anything to do with money. Certainly not Kramer's. 

His eyes wandered to an oft-handled tome with the title written in Latin. He took it down and it separated in his hands, age and wear having rendered the spine soft and useless. Within were a number of cramped notations, bits of paper covered all over in Kramer’s spidering handwriting and a calling card printed on starch white paper, newer than the others. 

**"M. Montressor's Occult and Curios"**

"I was afraid of that," he murmured, then turned to the woman. "Thank you, you have been most helpful."

Her lips pressed inward and she gave a small nod. He had the impression she was not a woman used to hearing those words. 

He left Kramer's flat and immediately hailed a cab to Montressor's address in Marylebone.


	11. Nothing in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: none

Chapter 11: Nothing in the Dark 

  
  


The sun was courting the western horizon by the time Holmes reached Montressor's shop, spiked shadows growing long against the sides of the buildings and people hurrying to finish the last of their errands before the shops closed for the evening.

Holmes alighted outside the store and the narrow, dark stairs cut into the side of the building that would take him to Montressor's small, bay windowed flat above. The bell jangled sharply as he entered the shop and the pocky faced girl behind the till gave him a gap-toothed smile.

"Welcome sah," she greeted with a clumsy curtsy, "Are ye lookin' for anything certain?"

"Cedar," Holmes replied decisively, "and sage."

"Ah," the girl said, eager to be of use. "We've both those over 'ere." She led him to an area with a small variety of herbs used for both medicinal purposes and the practice of magic. Next to the herbs were a few books on occult spells and practices, kitchen witchery and other such flimflam. Holmes had already read most of them during his period of study and found them to be filled with nonsense. Whatever magic existed in the world, it would not be found there.

He plucked up a sprig of dried sage and gave a delicate sniff, did likewise with the cedar. "Have you ritualistic chalk?"

The helpful girl bobbed her head. "Aye, it's there by the wall. Is it a spell yer after?" she asked curiously, watching as he rubbed a bit of chalk dust onto his finger and pressed it to his tongue.

"No. Do you know where Mister Montressor is?"

"Aye, sure. He's at home with the Missus," she replied, pointing up at the flat above them.

"Why would he leave a child such as yourself in charge of his shop if he is at home? " Holmes asked, and her face flushed in momentary offense.

"I'm thirteen," she said, lifting her chin defiantly. "And he don't never leave home close to dark no more. Not for weeks an' weeks now, ever since-" she clapped a hand over her mouth, clearly in danger of betraying some secret.

"Yes?" he prompted, leaning in close.

Her eyes took on a conspiratorial quality and she looked quickly around before leaning in, a hand cupped to the side of her mouth. "Ever since the old shop hand _died!_ It was in the papers!" She gave a small giggle and pulled back, pleased as any child to share her secret wisdom.

"You are quite brave to have taken up the position," Holmes said admiringly, and she blushed under the praise.

"I ain't scared," she scoffed. "Ma says he was mad as bedlam anyway."

"The gentleman's name wouldn't happen to be Langley, would it?" he asked causally, and the girl nodded enthusiastically.

"Aye, did ye know 'im?"

"No," Holmes replied, "And are you certain your Master has not left his home after dark since then?"

She thought hard, the somewhat rusty gears turning slowly in her mind. "Well..." she said after a moment, "He did ask me to stay with the missus a night or two, on account he don't like her bein' alone after dark."

"When?" Holmes asked sharply and she looked up in surprise.

"Ah- a week or so ago...bit more, maybe."

Holmes nodded. "Thank you," he said, tossing her a coin and she caught it, looking at it in confusion.

"But ye ain't bought nothin' yet," she protested.

"Good information is invaluable," he told her with a regal tip of his hat. He exited the shop, no doubt leaving her to ponder what the word 'invaluable' meant.

***  
  


The first two times he knocked on Montressor's door there was no answer, but after the third it cracked open and a red-faced man peeked out, wary-eyed and suspicious.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and-"

The door slammed shut in his face. Well, wasn't that a curious reaction. He knocked again. "Montressor!" he called through the door, "What did you observe, that has you so frightened?" then, softer, "Was it the doctor? What can you tell me of him?"

On the other side of the wall, Montressor's voice sounded high and frantic. "The "doctor"? _Doctor!_ Is that what he is? No- no a monster! He is too dangerous...I want nothing else to do with it!"

And here _Langley_ was supposed to have been the mad one. "If the doctor is as dangerous as you believe, then surely bringing him to justice would be the logical route." Holmes said reasonably.

"You can't, you can't," the man growled. "No man can touch him - death follows him!"

"You needn't involve yourself any further than telling me what happened to frighten you so."

There was a long silence, then the door opened once more, a single, wide eye glaring out at him. "That man,” Montressor began, voice skating on the edge of low hysteria, “claims to be a doctor only to work his evil on innocent women! My wife! Poisoned by him! Enthralled, hypnotized!"

"He poisoned your wife?" Holmes asked placidly. "Is she dead then?"

"Not _that_ kind of poison! Poison of the soul, of the mind and heart! Of body too, yes - but this poison does not allow the dead to stay where they belong!"

Holmes sighed. "Mister Montressor, you are raving. Please calm yourself and then tell me your story, beginning to end; leave no detail out. And-" he looked around, "might I suggest I come inside, where there are fewer ears?"

"I trust no one," Montressor hissed, but a moment later held something out to him; it was a crucifix of fine silver, similar to the one Langley had worn. "Take this," he said, thrusting it through the crack in the door. Holmes reached out and wrapped his hand around it firmly, keeping his eyes locked on Montressor's. The man relaxed the slightest bit and opened the door wide enough for Holmes to slip inside, the deadbolt clicking into place behind him. Before him was a small but comfortable sitting room, fire blazing in the hearth.

Montressor was already pacing. "I saw him, I saw him," he muttered, fingers twisting together in agitation. "I went there, one night- I - I'd had business in Cavendish, you see, and she was at his practice, her weekly appointment...I thought we would share a ride home. I had no suspicions- none at all-" He turned, staring at Holmes with eyes that bordered on desperate. "The doctor did not expect- he didn't see me, but I saw him! I _saw_ him through the window! Inhuman creature! Fiend of hell! What sort of beast wears a man's face while drinking their blood!?"

"He was drinking blood?" Holmes asked, watching with mild serenity as Montressor raved. "When was this?"

"Over a month ago," Montressor said, pacing his sitting room, wringing his hands. "Two months...who can say? I have waited, kept my Lucy under watch this whole time, not allowed her out at night - you must do these things! To stop her from changing!"

"When you say he was drinking blood - how do you mean? Are you certain it was blood?"

"Yes!" the man shrieked. "His mouth was on her _arm,_ his eyes glowing..." Montressor shuddered, nearly overcome.

"And what was your wife's reaction to this?"

"What reaction could she make? He had enchanted her, bewitched her! I've looked at her arm – there's only one mark, not two."

Holmes was having an infuriatingly hard time keeping the man on point. "What did you do then? Did you confront the doctor?"

Montressor hung his head, face flushing with shame. "No I - I ran. I hid...but I went back for her! God as my witness, Mister Holmes, I went back for her!"

"But her appointment had ended, and she had left," Holmes finished, picking up a letter opener the shape of a small sword and examining it idly. Montressor nodded miserably.

"She was already on her way home- she had no memory of it, no memory of that- that _fiend_ drinking her blood! She wanted to go _back!_ "

Holmes remained unmoved, pressing the tip of the letter opener against the pad of his finger, drawing a small pinprick of blood. "Calm yourself, sir. Father Newman said you had brought forth a charge of adultery against the doctor, before your other, more serious claims."

"Adultery, _adultery!_ Lies! I told him everything. He is a man of God. Surely a man of God would know how to banish evil..."

"And what did he say?" Holmes prompted, but Montressor's mouth closed like a steel trap.

"Nevermind," Holmes said, because he could already guess at the contents of their conversation. Montressor was neither clever nor brave; he would not have approached Langley without being prompted. And he certainly could not have afforded to send the man after Watson with a pouch full of silver bullets; Newman's influence was evident. "I believe you saw what you claim you did. However, there are logical explanations for each point."

"Logical!" Montressor sputtered, face going red again and not for the first time Holmes wished Stamford were there. His boy had been gifted with the social talents he himself lacked, making friends and influencing people with ease. Holmes could only occasionally connect, in a distant sort of way, and seemed to have more luck there with women than men. (Stamford would say that had less to do with his demeanor and more to do with his appearance, when he didn't look like "a half starved, drowned rat rolled in coal dust", to quote the man himself.)

"Understand I am not defending the doctor; such explanations do not absolve him of the guilt of his actions. However, they do reveal him to be mortal. My I speak with your wife?"

"No - she must rest, she must not be exposed to the night air! She will be drawn to him!" he said frantically, swaying towards madness once more.

Holmes sighed, "Mister Montressor, nothing you have told me makes me believe the doctor is anything more than human. Do you have a reason to believe otherwise?"

"What human drinks blood!?" he shrieked.

"A deranged one," Holmes answered, for while there was historical evidence that drinking blood had not always been looked upon with horror - and still wasn't, in certain parts of the world - that was not the answer Montressor wanted to hear right now, nor was it an answer that would garner any cooperation.

From the other side of the room a door opened, and a thin, blonde woman poked her head out. "James... it's alright dear. I want to speak with him."

Holmes turned his attention towards her, nodding his head in lieu of a bow. "Mrs. Montressor, I presume?"

She dipped her head lightly, a wan smile on her face. "Yes." She came fully into the room and sat down on one of the chairs. Montressor immediately began clucking over her, bringing her blankets and pillows, stoking the fire and finally moving off to the kitchen to make her tea.

Holmes observed her openly and without shame, concluding she must be a great beauty by the standards of the day - if one were inclined to notice such things.

"I apologize for my husband," she said softly, "he has been under a great strain."

"What can you tell me of your visits to Doctor Jackson's practice?" he asked, because exchanging mindless pleasantries had never been his way - certainly not during an investigation.

"I'm so sorry,” she replied regretfully, “I'm afraid I don't remember very much at all.”

"That's quite all right madam. My I see your arm where you were...bitten?"

"Yes," she replied, extending a pale, thin arm for his examination. There was an obvious scar from frequent bloodletting at the crook of her elbow, where the vein became visible just under the surface of the skin. But it bore a single mark, one long incision rather than a puncture wound.

"This is a surgical scar, from a scalpel," he announced. "Did he always draw blood from the same place, that you remember?"

"Yes, always just here," she affirmed. "I’d lay on the bed in his clinic room with this arm hanging free. He would give me a little chloroform for the pain, and to relax me. Then he would cut and let the bad blood drain away. I always swooned- I thought it was my delicate constitution."

"Was there a single light overhead?" he asked, knowing the answer already.

"Yes," she said with a nod. "He's got electricity, did you know?"

"He keeps evening hours, of course he has electricity. But that is not why I ask. Does he play music, something soothing?"

"Oh- yes. His practice is very soothing, very professional. I could hardly believe what my husband said he saw."

"And the doctor's voice, it is pleasant to listen to?" he prompted, leading her neatly down the path of erroneous conclusion.

"As a matter of fact yes," she said again, surprised. "He's very-"

"That's quite enough of that!" Montressor thundered, stepping back into the sitting room, red-faced with anger. "The man is a monster. He hypnotized my wife!"

"That is exactly what I believe he did," Holmes interjected calmly. "A bright light, soothing music, a pleasant voice and a touch of chloroform to addle the senses. I ascribe more of a charlatan to the doctor than the supernatural."

Montressor set the tea tray down heavily, looking unconvinced. "If you say so. I still believe him to be a monster - better to assume the worst and be true, than hope for the best and watch my wife die, taken by the night..."

"If he is a monster, he is a human one. It has been a month; has your wife expressed any interest in returning, or tried to sneak away?"

"Of course I haven't," she assured Holmes, putting a hand on her husband's arm. "I believe my husband, that the doctor was doing something terrible; I have no desire to go back."

"Exactly." Holmes said, spreading his open hands. "You are in no danger of being addled; the doctor's parlor tricks have no power over you."

She looked up at her husband then, and a tiny spark of hope flared in his eyes as they exchanged glances.

"I hope you are right," Montressor said at length, squeezing her shoulder and looking at Holmes with desperate hope. "Will you bring this man to justice? He has done us great harm. You cannot imagine what I- what we have endured. The- the _tortures_ of the spirit, these terrible weeks..." Montressor looked close to tears.

Holmes watched the man fluster and spit. When he spoke it was with the self-possessed tones of a man who knew his own mind absolutely. "I will do what I can to uncover the truth of this business, but it may take time. How long, I cannot say."

"I have already told you the truth!" Montressor shouted, ready to work himself into another fit of anger.

"You have told me what you believe, and I do not doubt it is the truth as you see it. But you must allow me to collect the facts, and form my own opinion from them."

Mrs. Montressor looked assuaged, her husband less so, but he had at least stopped arguing and blubbering, so Holmes moved the conversation swiftly forward. "Now, there is one more thing I would ask of you."

"Yes?" Mrs. Montressor said, looking up at him.

"Allow me to prove to you that there is nothing in the dark, and no reason to fear the night. The sun has just set; accompany me outside. Both of you."

Montressor looked terrified at the thought. "Sir, you ask too much-"

But Lucy -- who had no memory of the incident and was therefore less affected than her husband -- interrupted softly. "Come now dear. The doctor was a mad man yes, but not a monster. Listen to Mr. Holmes." She stood up, holding onto her husband's arm.

"You will be there to stop her, should your wife try to run away," Holmes reminded him. "As will I. I swear to you, no harm will befall her."

The couple followed Holmes downstairs and out the front door. The night was cool, the lamplighter making his way down the street, having passed their home already. James watched his wife carefully, holding on to her arm with a tight, frightened grip, but she seemed perfectly at ease, breathing in the night air with a serene countenance.

They stood there for a few minutes, and then Holmes spoke. "Take your wife, and guide her down the street and back. You needn't go far. It is fear binding you to your home, not magic."

James tried to protest, but his wife once again nudged him gently forward. They headed down the street, stopped to speak for a moment, and then returned.

"You see, James? I am fine," Lucy said, smiling gently and Montressor looked a bit more confident.

"Now, Mister Montressor, one final leap of faith. Your wife will go without you." Knowing this to be distressing to him -- in fact counting on it -- he soothed the blow by hastily adding, "I will walk with her, she will not be defenseless. But you must see with your own eyes that your wife is whole and safe, even in darkness. Even when you are not by her side."

He waited for the man's answer, having maneuvered the three of them to reach this very moment, this scenario.

James _was_ distressed, but eventually lessened the bone-white grasp on her arm and allowed her to go with Holmes.

"Thank you for doing this," she said to him quietly as they walked. "But surely easing my husband's fear is not part of being a detective?"

"You are very perceptive," Holmes replied approvingly, his voice soft and low. "When was the last time you saw the doctor?"

She pulled away from him, gaze fleeing from his like a startled hind. "The day James found out the doctor's secret, of course. He wouldn't allow me to return." A slow flush creeped up her neck, throat ducking.

"I know you are lying," he said gently, "but I will not insist on the truth. You have been through a trial, and it is enough to know he was here. You understand why I could not ask in front of your husband, nor in his present state of mind would he have consented to a private interview."

She looked up at him sharply, but there was no hostility in his face. After a moment she relaxed, and opened her heart to him. "He caught me outside alone only a few days ago. It was not quite dark, and I had stepped out to collect the wash. He asked why I'd left. I told him that James thought he was trying to seduce me. I understand it to be a rumor that has been circulating about the church, and I- I did not want him to know what I suspected, what James claimed to have seen. He left after that."

He nodded again, "And he did not attempt to harm you?" Watson would not have, point in fact but Holmes had to keep up appearances.

"Oh! No, no he was just as kind as ever," she replied, her brow furrowing. "It is why I had such difficulty believing my husband- Doctor Jackson has never been anything but kind to me."

After a brief stretch of silence they neared the end of the street, and Holmes asked the pivotal question. "And was it your husband who convinced Langley to pursue the doctor?"

She gasped, the hand on his arm trembling as her body told him what her lips could not. She opened her mouth to deny it but Holmes cut her off, saying, "Madam, you have already attempted to deceive me once this evening, please do not make a habit of it."

Her lip quivered but she nodded her head, swallowing her tears. "Please," she whispered desperately, her whole heart in the word, "Please, he thought only of me- of keeping me safe- please to do not expose him to the Yard, Mister Holmes. He did not realize...he only wanted to frighten Doctor Jackson away. He did not think it would end in bloodshed."

"I will not tell the Yard," Holmes said truthfully, and she sighed in relief as they met the corner of the street, and turned back.

"Why did you seek out services for bloodletting in the first place?" This was safe territory; a logical question to ask, so he did not worry about her husband overhearing.

"I was ill," she answered simply. "I fell last summer and the sickness would not leave me, so James decided the best course would be to get it out of my blood. It does seem to have worked, I feel much recovered these days."

The rest of their walk was taken in silence, and they soon arrived back at the spot where Montressor awaited them with an anxious expression. Holmes deposited her gently into her husband's care and stepped away. "There, you see monsieur; your wife is unharmed, and unchanged. There are things to fear in this world, but the doctor's 'magic' is not one of them."

"Thank you so much Mr. Holmes," Lucy said, leaning on her husband. They turned and headed up the stairs to their flat.

And there is was, the whole sordid business laid out at last, Montressor's guilt a front page headline scrawled all across his face. Lucy confirmed her husband's involvement with Langley's suicide mission herself, and Montressor's absence from the flat in accordance to the shop girl's account lined up with the time of Kramer's death.

The man had seen Watson feeding from his wife and, understandably terrified, brought his suspicions to the church. Then he -- along, no doubt, with Father Newman -- convinced Langley to take up arms against the doctor. When that proved futile, the desperate and unhinged Montressor, now teetering dangerously on the edge of madness had lured the unsuspecting Kramer -- his friend, shop patron and fellow believer in the supernatural -- into the alley and killed him in a mad and clumsy attempt at a frame-up.

The letter opener on Montressor's table had been sharpened to a fine point; punched into the carotid artery by a man of Mister Montressor's build, it would puncture the skin easily enough, and so Kramer died a painful death, bleeding out in a dingy alleyway while Montressor traded away his soul in pursuit of a zealot's justice. But the frame did not work because Watson was not a suspect; the police had not yet found any connection between him and the two dead men. They didn't even know they were supposed to be looking for one. Why then had Montressor not come forward with an anonymous tip, pointing them in the doctor's direction?

The answer, of course, is that he would. Very soon most likely, assuming he had not done so already. And because Holmes had let himself be removed from the case, he had no way of knowing when such an eventuality would occur.

"Damn" he swore under his breath, tossing some coins at a convenient cabbie and making for Watson's surgery in all haste.


	12. Thicker Than Water pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for: Blood drinking, but this is a vampire story, so

Chapter 12: Thicker Than Water pt. 1  


  
  


Night was full-on when Holmes arrived at Watson's clinic, the stars a distant memory beneath the customary gloom of London fog. He knocked, and then knocked again, and became irritated, having already grown accustomed to Watson anticipating his arrival. 

After a long moment which Holmes spent contemplating the merits of housebreaking the door finally opened, the doctor standing on the other side looking pale and dark-eyed, white skin almost translucent in the moonlight.

“Holmes,” he said, wavering slightly. “Tonight is not-” but Holmes was already inside, speaking quickly.

“You are alone, excellent. We must talk.” He did not wait for an answer. "We were right in that the person who sent Langley after you and the person who killed Kramer were one in the same. However, it was not the church, not directly. I believe with near certainty that it was Mister Montressor, the husband of your former patient.”

Watson didn’t technically _need_ to inhale, but he did so anyway. "What-why?”

"He arrived here unexpectedly one night and saw you drinking her blood. Am I correct in deducing that your heightened senses become somewhat dulled when you feed? When all you can focus on is the blood?" Distracted, hearing nothing but the pulse of blood through a living heart, the smell of it in the nose, its taste on the tongue and the hot slide of it as it coated the inside of a cold mouth...it might be possible to catch a vampire off guard.

"How, when?!" Watson snapped, clearly agitated. "He wasn’t- isn't - how _rude!_ " He paced the room, nearly growling, lips curled up over sharp teeth that seemed longer than they had before.

"Yes or no!?" Holmes barked. "Would it be possible for him to approach you unnoticed if you were feeding?"

_"Yes!"_ Watson hissed, turning to Holmes like a coiled snake ready to strike, hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides. "Yes, it would be possible. Feeding is...intimate."

Holmes was nothing if not perceptive. Watson was paler even than usual, skin so white the few veins that still had blood in them stood out sharply, his eyes a dark indigo shaded with malice, desperation and hunger.

"When was the last time you fed?" He demanded. He was never more aware of the danger that was John Watson than now. Whatever was left of the man, he only barely had a hold on the monster tonight, and that grip was slipping.

“Not since Langley,” Watson admitted, throwing himself into a chair, and Holmes’ face hardened in judgement.

“That was weeks ago.”

“Yes, and you said in the morgue whoever killed Kramer might try targeting my patients next.” Watson covered his eyes with a pale hand, shielding Holmes from his sight and the detective became keenly aware that _he_ was the only source of warm blood in the room. 

“So you dismissed them,” Holmes finished, his mind already ticking away at the problem at hand...and it's obvious solution.

“What else could I do?” Watson asked helplessly, still trying not to look at him and he reminded Holmes of a drowning man struggling for air. “I have sins enough; I did not want more innocent blood on my hands.”

“And starving yourself will somehow remedy the situation?” Holmes snipped. 

It was the wrong thing to say. Watson was out of the chair in an instant, a snarl on his lips and already halfway across the room before Holmes' eyes could perceive it. He stopped himself with obvious difficulty, turning from Holmes to face the wall with his hands pressed to his head in distress. Whatever warmth had been in the room seeped away, leaving in it's wake that same deathless chill Holmes remembered from their first meeting...when his life had hung in the balance of Watson's uncertain temper. He took a step back, his muscles tensed in preparation to either fight or flee. He was not the sort of man to retreat but neither was he a fool; he had seen the murder lust of a ravenous vampire in the doctor's eyes before the man managed to wrangle his darker half under control.

"You should go," Watson ground out, tone low and bestial and hardly sounding like a man at all.

Holmes did not go. He stood his ground instead. “No. You need to feed; you are useless to me like this.”

Watson let out something between a hiss and a growl, turning to stare at him in naked hunger. He took an unconscious step forward before wrestling himself back under control, face distorting in something like pain. "Get _out!_ Before I make a choice you and I will both regret!" He scrabbled desperate hands through his hair, muttering, “I can find a criminal.”

Holmes acknowledged the truth of this, London was teeming with petty evils. But he surmised Watson had not gone hunting for criminals in many years, preferring to drink only from his patients; people who came to him willingly in search of blood letting services, and left his office alive once they had both gotten what they wanted. He had existed in this manner for a long time, taking what he needed to survive, but no more.

Such a contentious monster.

“No,” he replied, voice brooking no argument. “If you can master yourself enough to feed without killing, then do so. Drink until you are at least sensible enough to follow basic instructions. There is work to be done tonight and you will be of no use if the only thing you can focus upon is blood.”

Watson looked up at him slowly, a slope-shouldered villain and _there_ was the creature Montressor had so feared, fierce-eyed and ravenous, impossible fangs grown long past his lips.

"You should sit down," he said, his voice a low, purring growl, eyes burning into Holmes’ own, searing like fire. The words were more than a suggestion, they were an Order, impossible to resist.

_Sit down...sit down...sit dooowwnnnnn...._

The words echoed and roiled in his mind, crawling beneath his skin and itching along his nerves; his entire body infested with the sound of Watson's voice. It began to fade but only because he was complying, his body moving not independently of thought, but at the behest of someone else's. Distantly he wondered if he could resist, and the natural inclination to do so was there. But now was not the time for such things. Resistance would do nothing but fuel the deadly predator that wore Watson's face.

He sat heavily in a chair, legs collapsed beneath him and eyes still on the doctor. Watson followed him like an arrow to its mark, staring down at him in open desire.

"Take off your jacket," he Ordered smoothly, sliding his hand through Holmes' hair. "And unbutton your shirt."

_Take off...your....jacket....unbutton...your....shirrtttt_

Holmes could do nothing but comply, his chest rising and falling as his breath settled into to a rhythm that was not his own. It happened impossibly quick, the space between one blink and the next. Watson’s lips were suddenly against his neck, and there was a moment’s hesitation before his teeth broke through flesh. Holmes gasped, a sharp inhale of breath and it most definitely hurt...but the pain was not entirely unpleasant. There was something erotic to the blending of pleasure and pain, almost sexual in it's effect and his body responded accordingly, heart rate jumping, blood starting to pump through the wound in his neck that much faster.

_Of course_ , he thought dizzily. The apex predator, the ultimate beast of prey. It wouldn't waste energy on the hunt, wouldn't expend itself in pursuit and physical submission. It would Compel its prey to offer itself willingly; to hold still while it drained the life away. He let his eyes fall shut, head lolling to the side as he panted. He could feel the blood leaving his body but couldn’t find it within himself to care overmuch. His mind quieted, raging rivers of thought turning slow and red.

Darkness came to claim him, and he fell willingly into it's embrace...


	13. Thicker Than Water pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for: blood drinking (this IS a vampire story after all)

Chapter 12: Thicker Than Water, pt.2

  
  


_Yes. God, yes..._

Watson drank deeply, overcome with sanguine bliss as Holmes' blood filled his mouth, hot and alive and beguiling. Holmes tasted exquisite, even better than he'd dreamed he would in that dark, unacknowledged place in his heart where he kept such treacherous desires. Warmth spread all through him as hot blood flowed into his cold limbs, the detective's life becoming his own. Holmes' surface thoughts washed over him; his scientific analyses slowly fading as his pulse raced.

Watson cradled Holmes carefully as a newborn babe as the detective began to relax, his arms surprisingly gentle in contrast to the grip his teeth had on the man's neck. He moaned as the hunger started to fade and with it came clarity, the awareness to know that Holmes was beginning to swoon. His human half wrestled control away from the beast and he pulled away at last, licking Holmes' wounds to close them, cleaning the last traces of blood from his neck. He stayed there, kneeling over Holmes with one knee pressed into the chair, holding him as the haze began to fade.

After a few moments Holmes began to stir in his arms, eyelids fluttering like moths and he blinked awake, his eyes still clouded by the lingering effects of Watson’s thoughts in his head.

Watson let him go with strange reluctance, his mind and body still pleasantly abuzz. “Are you alright?" he breathed, stepping back to look at Holmes properly.

"I think-" Holmes stood slowly, hanging onto the arm of the chair. "-not." His knees buckled and he sagged.

Watson caught him with easy strength and guided him back down into the chair, a spear of panic jolting through him. He hadn't taken too much, had he? No - no of course not. He had perhaps drank slightly more than was his habit, but certainly nothing that couldn't be recovered from with proper hydration and a decent night's rest.

"You'll be alright, just hold on a moment. A slight faintness is to be expected; let me get you the tea I usually serve my patients, it will help." He moved quickly to the fireplace, setting the kettle on and fiddling with tea leaves and sugar, pale hands flashing white against the firelight.

Behind him Holmes voice was lazy with exhaustion. "That was a most...singular experience. I can see why Montressor's wife was eager to return."

Watson's hands stilled and he felt a momentary flash of embarrassment. "It can be most enjoyable," he agreed, keeping his head down, his movements precise. "I usually ensure my patients are unaware of exactly what is happening, but I admit I do not erase their memories of the pleasure it brings them. Repeat clients are a dependable resource."

"Of course," Holmes said. "But-" he closed his eyes a moment, gathering his strength. "-how is it a single day has fomented such a change in you? I saw you just last night; you did not seem unwell, nor had any trouble mastering yourself. Why were you suddenly so ravenous?"

Watson sucked at his lip for a moment before answering. "It is not like human hunger, Holmes. It is not a gradually growing thing that can be ignored for a time. The blood we drink sustains us completely...until the moment it does not. After that, the decline is both swift and merciless. We _must_ feed when we are hungry; it- it is not a compulsion that can be denied."

"And how often must it be done?"

He shrugged. "That depends on how much blood is taken. Usually I take only a few mouthfuls at a time, and thus must feed every few days. In Langley's case, I drank quite a bit more; his blood sustained me for nearly two weeks."

"Two weeks..." Holmes muttered, his eyes narrowed in thought.

"What is it?" Watson asked, thinking Holmes must have just had a revelation of some sort, those great flowing rivers of thought connecting together in some obscure way. "What are you thinking?"

Holmes shook himself as if waking from a dream and fixed Watson with a pleasantly false smile. "Nothing of importance to the moment." He reached to his pocket for a pipe that wasn't there and made a face, allowing his hand to fall to his lap again. "Now then," he began, "We must to the business at hand. You are in danger here. Montressor wants you dead; at the very least, he wants you found out and he has already killed a man to be rid of you. I may have convinced him you are only human, I do not know, but no one will convince him you are not a threat. It is only a matter of time - possibly a very short time - before he grows impatient with the Yard's lack of progress and points them in your direction. Even if all they wish to do is interview you...you know what will happen."

"What - what should I do, then? I want no more bloodshed, Montressor is only trying to protect his wife."

"You must give Montressor exactly what he wants. You must disappear."

Watson sighed sadly. "I did so enjoy London...I was born here, did you know? It was- it was very different then. Smaller. Less sanitary too, if you can believe it. I wandered for so many years after I was turned...but my heart always desired to return-"

Holmes cut him off with an impatient wave. "We've no time for you nostalgic waxing, doctor. If you wish to stay in London you must do as I say, the sooner the better. We are nearly out of time."

"How do you propose I 'disappear' then?" he asked, intrigued at the implication that he needn't physically leave the city. The kettle continued to heat as they spoke, and Watson prepared the teapot.

"Firstly, you must quit your tenure at the Yard. Then you must steal a corpse on the way out. Having full access to the morgue at all hours, it should not be a difficult task. I once worked a case where a man faked his own death in a house fire, it was quite ingenious. I believe the same scheme will serve us well here. Your home will suffer a tragic fire and all that will be left to find is a charred corpse. I can then have the Yard charge Montressor with Kramer’s murder without risking your involvement."

Watson blinked at Holmes, utterly astonished.

"That is... quite a long list of illegal activities," he remarked, unable to decide if he should be impressed by Holmes' reckless ingenuity or concerned, and settled somewhere in between the two. "I thought you were a man of the law. Why are you doing this?"

"I am a man of justice; it is disheartening how often those two concepts diverge." He sighed, "Montressor must answer for his crime. I cannot do that without compromising you, and in so doing putting the lives of innocent - if incompetent - officers at risk. I think I speak rightly when I say you will not go quietly into that good night. If someone threatens you, you will not hesitate to kill them. You might mourn them afterwards and grieve for your actions, but in the heat of the moment you will protect yourself. If the Yard comes to your door and you refuse to meet them in the daylight, there will be questions. Even if you belay their suspicions, it will take root in others.

Leaving the city will not be enough; you will be searched for in connection with Montressor's crime, and it will look all the more suspicious that you are gone. Furthermore, you are tied to the church for reasons I still have not yet divined. Your supposed death will be a boon for me in that investigation as well."

Watson listened and pondered it all. It was true, he would fight to defend his life (as anyone would do, would they not?), even if that meant hurting or killing innocent men.

"The church, yes... I thought for certain Newman was behind the order to kill me. But Langley and Kramer were both victims of Montressor, in the end."

"Montressor did not stumble into Langley’s involvement on his own,” Holmes replied. “Newman’s scent is all over this business. There are unanswered questions within the church, and something dark brewing. This still of course leaves the question of where you will go once your current abode is torched."

Watson glanced up from staring thoughtfully into the fireplace. "Oh - I assume I'll just rent a new flat," he said, but Holmes dismissed that with a weary scoff.

"Don't be ridiculous. We can't go through all the trouble of removing you from the public eye only to thrust you back in. You need somewhere you will be safe and concealed; both night and day."

"Where do you suggest?" Watson asked, suspicious and, perhaps, a little hopeful.

"How strong are your powers of suggestion?” Holmes asked suddenly, and Watson blinked in surprise at the abrupt shift in conversation.

He shrugged. “It depends on the person; some minds are more easily persuaded than others.”

“And what of Mrs. Hudson’s mind?”

“Mrs. Hudson?” he repeated, surprised. He scratched the back of his neck as he considered, a vestigial habit from when he had been mortal. “I don’t know, she seems about average." And then, because he was beginning to understand how truly crafty Holmes could be, "Why? What is it you want me to do to the poor woman?”

“There is an unused garret room above my own quarters; it once belonged to Stamford. We can close the shutters and plank the window to be safe; no one looking up would think anything suspicious. Without the light from the window it will be wholly dark. You will then be able to come and go as you please. But Nanny will know of you, thus unless your mental powers are strong enough to plant in her mind the command that she not mention you to anyone, you will not be safe."

"You want me to move into Baker Street?" he said dumbly, and it was such an odd thing to consider, as bizarre a suggestion as if someone recommended he try living on the moon. 

"It is hardly about what I _want_ doctor," Holmes replied in that damnably cutting way he replied to everything. "Can you do it or not?"

Watson was still trying to process it all, uncertain he had heard correctly. “I am sure I could, but why would you do this for me? I am a monster and a murderer; you have no reason to keep me safe. You could easily order me to flee the city after we fake my death."

Holmes tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth and perhaps it was only in Watson's imagination that there was a reproach in it. "The last time you killed it was in self-defense, but your method of disposal has since brought a host of problems to my door. You could have made the body disappear, but you did not. Instead you left it lying on the roof of a church as a 'message' the entire city heard and forced my hand into shielding various criminal activities in an effort not to expose you, because doing so will ensure the death of more people than I am comfortable bearing the weight of."

Watson hoped Holmes would stop there, but of course things never seemed to go the way he wished them to while within a certain proximity of the detective.

"I am hardly willing to turn you loose upon the world again. No, I mean to keep an eye on you, at least until this mess you've caused is sorted to my satisfaction. You are also a player in whatever darkness has enveloped the church, and I need you nearby least your part proves pivotal. Newman was less than honest about you, and I intend to discover why. I have my own theories, but I require more facts of the matter. In that vein, a man who can read the thoughts of others may prove invaluable."

There were a good many assumptions Holmes had made in all of that, the least of which was that he thought he might be able to ‘keep an eye’ on Watson, as though he were nothing more than an unruly mongrel in need of supervision. But Watson kept such thoughts to himself, because all else aside he was not opposed to Holmes’ plan.

"I shall comply then,” he said, and tried not to sound condescending. “You did say my obedience was a requirement for you to take on my case, yes?"

"It was, though as your case is nearly at an end your word will not bind you for much longer."

"There is a question in all of this, though," Watson said. "How am I to feed? I'll no longer have a practice."

Holmes seemed deeply unconcerned. "Montressor will be behind bars within the next few days, and if I am correct in my hypothesis things will come to a head at the church very soon. Afterwards, you will be free to go your own way and resume your practice, provided you keep your hands clean. You should not need to feed before then."

Watson hummed thoughtfully. "It is an interesting plan. However, you will not be of much use tonight." The kettle whistled and Watson took it off the fire, filling the teapot and releasing a heavy herbal scent to waft through the room. Watson prepared a cup, handing it over with a congenial smile. "Drink this," he instructed, "it's a mixture of my own creation. The ingredients all bolster the production of blood and warm the body. You'll need two full cups to replenish what was lost, though even then you will be weak for some time yet. You are welcome to rest here for the night."

"I think that would be an extremely unwise idea," Holmes said, accepting the cup. "And I am certain I have strength enough to find my way to a carriage."

"And experience tells me you do not," Watson countered, offering him the sugar bowl as well.

"I have taken great care to ensure that we have not been seen together so far, nor have I mentioned your name - there's a point, by the way. You'll be wanting a new alias; I am aware the public at large does not know you as Watson." He accepted the tea and drank deeply, his thirst evident.

"I was going to suggest you leave before dawn," Watson replied. "That would give you a few hours to recover, with time to slip away before being noticed." He glanced at Holmes, keeping watch over his recovery. "It's the least I can do..." his voice trailed off, remembering the taste of Holmes' blood in his mouth, the mad rush of thoughts from his mind. "Thank you," he added softly a moment later. "That was not something most men would consider doing voluntarily."

"I am not most men, and it was a better alternative than having you waylay an unsuspecting victim."

For various reasons, Watson attempted to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Will you stay till dawn?" he asked again, sitting down in the opposite chair. "You have done much for me, let me watch over you this once."

Holmes gave a long suffering sigh. "I will stay an hour if you will stop badgering me," he grumped in reply.

Watson smiled, and with his body flushed with blood he looked very human, his skin tinged a faint pink. "You can rest in the convalescence room, there's a comfortable bed there." He stood up and poured Holmes a second cup. "After you finish your tea, that is."

"You're worse than nanny," Holmes complained, and then proceeded to fall asleep in the chair.

It was just as well; Watson had already gleaned from Holmes' mind that it had been too long since the man last had proper rest. To that end he carefully pried Holmes out of the chair and half guided, mostly carried him to the bed. He laid him down, removed his shoes and made certain he was covered; being without blood made the body colder than usual. Then...then he stood watch.

Watson found Holmes to be a terrible enigma. Focused on his own definition of justice, willing to break any rule to follow that morality. If the law stood in the way of that, then the law be damned. And now that the two of them were connected -- firstly through Stamford, then the case, and finally blood -- Watson found himself being pulled along in Holmes' wake, following the detective and that damnable certainty of his that felt like solid ground beneath Watson's feet.

That same certainly that allowed him to offer his blood freely and without fear.

Watson touched cold fingers to lips now blushed a faint pink by Holmes' blood.

In Watson's experience, nearly everyone enjoyed the act of feeding in the moment; that was simply the nature of the thing. But most - many - were horrified afterwards of how easily they'd fallen under the sway of an Order. Terrified that next time, they wouldn't walk away. Holmes hadn’t been afraid. He had- he had _trusted_ Watson to stop himself, even as he watched Watson struggle against his own dark impulses. Was there another such man in the world? Probably, but Watson had never met them.

So, what to do with his detective? He didn’t know.

***

He decided to let Holmes sleep until just before dawn; Watson's own senses could tell him morning was hailing even if he were under a hundred feet of stone. But it was Holmes, so naturally he woke on his own an hour or so before sunrise.

"You shouldn't let me sleep so long," he complained with his back to Watson.

"You've still got plenty of time to leave without being noticed, and you desperately needed rest," Watson replied, looking over at him and seeing only the rumpled lines of his back. "Here is your jacket," he added, standing up and bringing it over. "You should... probably also button up your shirt before you go."

Holmes harrumphed at him. "If I am not to be noticed it hardly matters." But he did up the buttons anyway. Well, some of them.

Watson chuckled. "It is entirely up to you if you wish to travel across the city looking debauched."

"It has never stopped me before," he said lazily, searching about for his hat.

"Oh?" Watson’s eyebrow quirked at the revelation, slight smile tugging at his mouth.

"Hmmm," Holmes agreed with a non-committal grunt. The top few buttons were still undone on his shirt, sleeves dangling like Spanish moss. He threw his coat on and draped the cravat around his neck, not bothering to tie it.

"Get a full night's sleep," Watson urged. "I will end my employment with the Yard tonight, and procure a body. I assume it is best to get this done sooner rather than later."

"It certainly is," Holmes agreed, and then he was gone.

Watson watched him go, and then, overcome with exhaustion from the rising sun, swiftly made his way to his sleeping place, secured the door from the inside, and went to bed.


	14. Wherefore the Greater Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: none

Chapter 14: Wherefore the Greater Good 

  
  


The next day, James Montressor attempted to flee.

Holmes had to admit it had been his own carelessness that set events into motion, a brief but unforgivable lapse in his usually ridged standards brought on, no doubt, by the after-effects of mild to moderate blood loss. In such a state his is thoughts became fractured and disorganized, body slow to respond to his commands.

Bluntly stated he was exhausted, and that in turn impaired his faculties.

He had left Watson’s practice in the quiet hour before sunrise, arriving at Saint Cyperian’s in the steel grey light of pre-dawn. His Irregulars, that rag-tag group of street urchins he employed time to time as errand runners had been keeping watch on the church day and night, but they had nothing noteworthy to report. No beggard had yet replaced Mister Blevins as the intended target and so Holmes was obliged to wait; he could not go to the Yard with nothing more than his word that something nefarious was happening. Even if he were believed, it would take more than a sick parrot and a room scrubbed clean of blood to secure a warrant. The church wielded too much power and influence and the homeless, not nearly enough. Thus if he was to catch Newman it must be (quite literally) red-handed.

Stymied at the church he reversed course and headed back to Baker Street, letting himself in with the quiet care of a burglar on the prowl and ghosting up the steps, feet finding the silent spaces where the floor boards didn’t creak.

The hour was far too early and he was far too exhausted to deal with Mrs. Hudson's clucking.

It had not been his intention to linger. The plan was to stay only long enough to hide his features behind a careful disguise before visiting Montressor’s shop. He was slowly closing the net around the man and needed to keep a careful eye on him; it would not do to have himself recognized. 

But his best laid plans had not taken into account a body weakened for want of blood, and the morning passed with him slumped in his reading chair in a heavy doze. By the time he woke properly it was half ten, and he cursed aloud as he dove for his makeup kit in a mad scramble. To sleep half the morning away while on a case in which time was of the essence was insupportable, and he berated himself soundly as he made his way through the borough to Montressor’s shop on Dorsett street. 

The morning was crisp, the sky a fierce and relentless shade of blue. All around him was the clatter of carriages and omnibuses, the chatter of people, the thrum and pulse of a living city rumbling beneath his feet. Holmes didn’t care about any of it, his focus narrowed to a rapier’s point. There was the case, and the details thereof. There was a murderer to catch, and wrongs to right, and nothing else.

The rest of it fell away, insignificant.

***

  
  


He arrived at the occult shop to find Montressor gone and the same pocky girl from the night before left in charge. She chattered at him in a good natured, empty-headed fashion, informing him that her master had left earlier that morning in great haste, with no word as to where he might be going nor when he would return.

This was not surprising. That Montressor would attempt to leave the city was nearly a foregone conclusion. He was a frightened, superstitious, somewhat cowardly man and such men did not often linger after being questioned by detectives in regards to crimes they most definitely committed. Even when the questions were as innocuous as Holmes' had been. 

Such an eventuality as this was Holmes' chief motivation for being at the shop that day, and he had intended to arrive early enough he could shadow Montressor should the man try to leave. But his constitution failed him and he'd slept through the morning, letting both time and target slip through his fingers.

The only good bit of news was that Montressor's wife was still at home, which meant the man was bound to return at some point. He might leave all else behind, but he would not leave her. In other circumstances --ones that didn't involve murder -- Montressor's love and devotion to his wife would be admirable. 

He left the shop and took up watch across the street, slouched up against a light post with a newspaper spread between his hands, the breath from the London crowd hanging in the air.

His concentration was in tatters, thoughts scattered like seed and more than once he caught himself on the verge of dozing off. Ridiculous, dangerous and lazy. What the hell was wrong with him? He had a case that was swiftly moving to a pivotal point. He had slept for hours the night before, and again that morning. He had no excuse to be drifting off while at watch. Lives were at stake.

It was late afternoon by the time Montressor returned, furtive look on his broad features as he stepped quickly out of a brougham cab and threw himself inside the shop, door banging shut behind him. A moment later he was pushing the young girl out the door, a look of surprise on her face as the sign in the window flipped from open to closed.

Now.

Holmes let out a hiss of air from between his teeth and sprinted across the street, managing to reach the door just as Montressor was making to lock it. "A moment, sir!" he called in high, nervous tenor, wedging his foot in the door. Montressor reared back in surprise, his face a jumble of confusion and fear.

“Oh, oh I am sorry-” he babbled, barring Holmes' path, "we are closing for the day – a family emergency, you understand...”

“I’ll only be a moment,” Holmes assured him as he bullied his way inside. “Very queer business going on these days, very queer indeed.“

Montressor was at a loss as to what to do. “Did you hear me?” he said, trailing after him. “We’re closed. There will be no more business today. I – I must to the train station, before dark. I won’t travel after dark!”

“Travel?” Holmes asked, spinning around and pinning Montressor down with a stare. “Where are you going?”

“Away! Away from London...” he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his brow. “I won’t stay here another night. Not one more night!" He muttered nonsense to himself as he shuffled about behind the till, emptying the drawer of the day's income. "You should go too," Montressor said, looking up at him, eyes large as tea saucers. "London is no longer safe; it is plagued by demons!"

Holmes allowed himself a moment of anger. Damn it...damn Montressor and damn Watson too. How many laws was he compelled to break in order to keep Watson's secret? If the police found Montressor _now_ , Watson was at risk. If he let Montressor escape, not only would they possibly not find him again but it put his plan in jeopardy...and Watson was still at risk. Montressor could not be turned over to the law until "Doctor Jackson" was safely out of the way.

It was not the first time Holmes wished he'd never met Watson, but it was possibly the most fervent. Bad choices. Bad choices were all he'd been handed since the man walked through his door. He should have followed his first instinct and had nothing to do with him ever again, though of course that would have been impossible once Langley's body appeared on the church roof. Why had Watson not simply disposed of the corpse? Oh right, he'd wanted to send a 'message'. Well, he had. One the entire damn city had heard and Holmes had been struggling to cover for him ever since.

Holmes quickly weighted his options and chose the one least safe to himself but which would hopefully cause the least amount of trouble, pain and/or death for everyone else involved in the business.

He knocked Montressor out.

"The things I do for you," he muttered to Stamford under his breath as he tied the helpless man up. He then secured him in the storage room, made certain both bonds and gag were secure and locked up with Montressor's key before sneaking out the back, stealing a packet of matches on the way out. In the alley behind the store he tore off his disguise and stuffed it into the bottom of a rubbish bin, then headed up the stairs to the flat above, knocking urgently on the door.

Lucy Montressor greeted him with a warm smile. "Mr. Holmes!" she said pleasantly. "How nice to see you again. I'm afraid James isn't home just yet."

"Indeed, it is that point on which I have come to inquire. Do you know where he is? His shop is closed and locked."

Fear immediately took hold of her frail frame, hands flying to her mouth. "Oh no! I don't have any idea! He was supposed to be at the shop all day!"

"Have you a spare key?"

"No, we've only got one key, he keeps it on him..."

"And he did not tell you where he was going?"

She shook her head frantically, beginning to tremble in distress. "I didn't know he had gone...it is not like him to not tell me if he plans to leave."

Holmes called upon his talents as an actor and gave her a reassuring smile. "Stay here, wait for my word. Either someone is after your husband or your husband is after someone. Either way, I wish you to be safe." The fear in her face made him curse Watson anew. _Why_ did it have to come to this? How many more scruples would he compromise before this mess was untangled?

She nodded. "Oh Mister Holmes! Please, please find him!" Then she shrank back inside, locking the door behind herself and closing up the shutters.

As he left Holmes reflected on the fact that he had probably felt like a greater villain sometime in the past.

He just couldn’t recall when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. One half of the editing team was dealing with a sick kid this week.


	15. Trial By Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Uhh...fire and angst?

Chapter 15: Trial By Fire   


  
  


This sudden turn in events meant Holmes had to adjust both plan and timetable, and that required several hasty detours through various parts of the city. By the time he made his way to Watson's practice night had already fallen over London like ash, distorted shadows of people and horses looming out of the lamp lit fog. 

There was a light burning in the upstairs window, and Watson opened the door for him as he sprinted up the steps.

"I do hope you have removed any personal artifacts you wish to be spared from the flames," he said without preamble.

Watson stepped gracefully aside as Holmes barreled past. “I have. Remind me again why I am letting you commit arson and torch both my home and practice.”

Holmes paused in the hallway, took a breath. “Because fire is one of the very few things that can kill a vampire, and Doctor Jackson must die. An empty warehouse would be too suspicious.”

“And what of the other houses on the street? If the fire is not contained-”

“-we risk burning down half of London,” Holmes finished. “Yes, that is why you must follow my instructions exactly.” He took the stairs two at time. “Put the corpse into some of your own clothing, and bring it upstairs.”

“It’s dressed already,” Watson called back as he went to retrieve it, and Holmes gave a hum of approval.

“Meet me in the attic!” he shouted down as his footsteps thundered up, “Bring the corpse!”

By the time Watson joined him a few minutes later Holmes had nearly finished pouring half a gin bottle’s worth of accelerant at strategic points around the room. “Place it in the center of the attic there, and douse the corpse with the remainder of this,” he instructed, handing over the bottle as he went to open the street-facing window.

“This is going to look like arson,” Watson muttered unhappily, thankfully doing exactly as had been instructed.

“It _is_ arson,” Holmes reminded him lightly, sweeping a satisfied gaze around the room.

“And how to you plan to explain that to the Yard?”

Holmes made a rumble in the back of his throat. “I do not intend to explain it at all.”

Watson stopped and looked up sharply, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you planning, Holmes? What is there about this business you haven’t told me?”

“I haven’t told you a number of things,” he replied honestly, “nor do I intend to at the moment. There is far too much to do and very little time to do it; it benefits nothing to stand about chin-wagging. Come now, take this blood, pour it about your surgery downstairs.”

Watson gripped the vial and gave it a delicate sniff. “This is pig’s blood- where did you get it?”

“From a pig, of course. Go.”

Watson gave him a look that held a hundred exasperated questions within it but did as instructed, which was fortunate because Holmes didn't have time to argue with him. If he was to 'kill' Doctor Jackson and keep the fire from spreading through the neighborhood, he had to time things perfectly.

Once Watson had rejoined him in the attic and everything was arranged to Holmes' satisfaction he packed a pipe with a bit of shag, withdrew the packet of matches he’d pilfered from Montressor’s shop and set it alight, saying, "Flames travel up with greater ease than they travel down. Setting the attic afire will ensure the structure burns more slowly, and opening the street side window will draw attention to the blaze.” He flicked the still burning match onto the corpse. It erupted in a sudden wash of orange flame that hit them both in the face with a great blast of heat. 

“Good Lord-" Watson breathed, shielding his eyes and taking a reflexive step away from the growing blaze, "should I call for the fire brigade on the way out?” 

“The Irregulars have called them already," Holmes reassured him, "they will be here within the next five minutes.”

“Will that be enough time for the corpse to burn beyond recognition?”

“With the accelerant used? Most certainly.” It should not, however, be long enough for the fire to spread too far. He didn't go over the calculations again because there was no point; the thing was done. If he'd made an error, he'd know it soon enough.

Watson eyed the flames warily, took another step back. “What next then? Meet at your place?”

“No. I must alert your neighbors to the danger, then make haste to Montressor's shop before he finds a way to escape."

"Escape? Is he - no, tell me later," he said, shaking his head and turning to the stairs. They made their way down and out through the kitchen door as heavy black smoke rolled out the upper window. The attic walls began to smolder as they exited into the alley by the coal shed. 

Holmes was coughing into his sleeve. “Meet me at Montressor's," he wheezed, chest contracting for want of air, "provided there is no suspicious activity around the place. If there is, go to Baker Street. Avoid nanny if you can; I assume you can let yourself in with the same ease as before. If the constabulary should make an appearance, hide."

Watson nodded. "I will see you at the shop, then." Watson did not require breath and was therefore unaffected. The only danger fire held for him were the flames themselves. He slipped down the alley, becoming no more than a shadow and was suddenly gone, vanishing like a desert mirage.

Holmes turned back to the building, regarding his handiwork with a grave expression. Then he went to wake the neighbors.

***

  
  


Montressor's street was quiet and dark, a welcome change after the bonfire frenzy of Cavendish. Holmes had stayed only long enough to make certain the fire was under control and the nearest families out of danger. He stayed out of the lamplight, clinging to the shadows as he snuck around to the back entrance and Watson was there already, stepping out of the hazy fog as Holmes approached.

"I can hear him struggling inside..." Watson said, head cocked to the side. 

"Excellent. How powerful are your skills of persuasion upon the memory?"

A line appeared between Watson's brows as he considered. "I can influence them to a degree," he said. "I make my patients forget what I do to them."

"I did not know that the effect ranged beyond immediate memory, but if so that makes my work much easier."

"It does have limitations," Watson replied carefully, "what do you intend to change?"

"The last three hours or so?" he asked. "There is a contingency of course, but it would require me to tell the truth and I've become rather fond of subverting it these last few weeks." His higher mind reminded him he probably shouldn't be goading a vampire, but he was under pressure and out of time and both of those things were indirectly Watson's fault, so.

He was being petty.

"I believe I can manage that," Watson said as Holmes unlocked the door.

"You know where he is," Holmes said softly, assuming Watson's sight and hearing were more than adequate to the task of finding the man in the dark. "He was on the verge of fleeing so I incapacitated him. Bring him out back and fugue his memory of the last few hours as much as possible. Then let him go; he'll wander home soon enough."

"He won't remember much beyond falling asleep," Watson assured him, “Fragmented pieces, perhaps. Like a dream.” Then he slipped soundlessly inside. He emerged moments later with the newly unconscious body of Montressor carried easily in his arms, as if he weighed no more than a child. He set him down gently and looked at Holmes.

"Thank you, now-" Holmes knelt and took a bit of charcoal from his pocket, smearing it on the man’s hands and jacket. Then he locked up the door again and stuck both the key and the packet of matches in Montressor’s pocket. He took a moment to muss the man's hair a bit before standing and brushing off his trousers. "There now. You return to Baker street; same instructions as before. I'll join you when I'm finished here, though it may not be until nightfall next. If you must flee the dawn it would be best to find somewhere else to weather the light; Baker Street is not yet secure from the sun."

Watson watched Holmes as he worked, catching on quickly enough to what he had done.

"I can make him dream of fire, if you wish," he offered.

"Can you? That may be for the best," Holmes replied somewhat regrettably. He was not proud of this; indeed, he almost wished Watson could offer him the same surcease from memory. But Watson's secret needed to be protected, the church needed to be investigated and Montressor needed to face justice for murder. If he were charged with arson as well it would hardly make a difference to the noose around his neck.

Watson bent down and put his fingers against Montressor's temple. After a moment the man's face turned to a grimace of fear and pain and he whimpered pitifully, twisting on the ground.

"There." He straightened his back and looked at Holmes. "I'll see you at Baker Street, if you return tonight. If not, tomorrow."

"Indeed," Holmes said, looking down at Montressor with an unreadable expression. Watson departed and Holmes concealed himself in the deep shadows of the alley, half hidden behind a drain pipe. There was nothing to do now but wait.

Montressor eventually roused from his nightmare, waking in slow confusion at finding himself in the alley behind his shop. He stumbled to his feet, movements graceless and uncertain as he slowly made his way around the corner and up the narrow steps to his flat.

Holmes didn’t need to see anything else, he knew how the scene would play out. His wife would be relieved to have him home, Montressor’s disorientation would soon turn to panic as she informed him that Holmes had been there looking for him and he would attempt to flee again, but this time Holmes would be ready for him.

He flagged down a passing hansom cab, handing the man a half-crown. "Go fetch the first constable you find and bring him back here," Holmes told him briskly, "Tell him Sherlock Holmes requires his assistance. Be back in five minutes, I'll give you another half crown."

"Aye, sir!" the cabbie said, touching the brim of his hat as he took off at a near gallop.

Holmes did not have long to wait. Three and a half minutes later the cabbie returned, and a constable leapt down from the cab even before it rattled to a full stop, running to Holmes's side.

"Sir??" he said, glancing anxiously around the street.

"There," Holmes pointed at Montressor's house while handing the cabbie another silver piece. "His name is James Montressor; he arrived home less than ten minutes ago and depending on how well his faculties are working he may even now be packing to flee."

"Fleeing? Why sir?" the constable asked. To his credit, he'd already started walking towards Montressor's door.

"Because he is a murderer. There was a fire at Cavendish square tonight; I have just come from there." And if those two sentences were not technically related, they were still true. 

The constable swung around to peer at him doubtfully. "Cavendish? Was that him then? And murder you say? I hope you have evidence, sir!" 

Holmes kept his face clean of all artifice. "If I did not have evidence, I would not have called on you."

"Of course," the constable acquiesced grudgingly. He skipped briskly up the steps and Holmes followed, watching as he knocked loudly upon the door with his club. "Come out, Montressor! Scotland Yard!" He glanced back at Holmes. "He hasn't got a back door, has he?"

"No.”

There was a commotion within, frantic voices and the front door ripped open, Lucy Montressor standing in the doorway looking pale and frightened.

"Don't take my husband!" she begged, trying to hold the constable back with all her weak strength, hands pushing futilely at his chest. The officer gently but firmly moved her out of the way and headed inside. She watched him go with an aborted plea on her lips then spied Holmes, crying out in anguish. "You!!!"

Guilt washed through him at the look on her face, deep and bone-rending. But Montressor _was_ a murderer. "I am sorry," he told her with genuine feeling. "It is as I said, someone was after him...or he was after someone."

She took a shaky step towards him, shaking her head in disbelief with her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"He said he dreamed of fire! There’s _ash_ his hands, matches in his pocket-!" She got no further, swooning as her body succumbed to emotional strain, overcome.

Holmes darted forward to catch her, sinking them gently to the ground as the officer brought Montressor out, hands clasped in darbies behind him. "Lucy!" he wailed, fighting against the officer to try and reach her. "My wife- let me talk to my wife!"

Holmes closed is eyes against another onslaught of guilt as the officer wrestled Montressor back under control. "I will stay with the lady," he said, his voice rough. "Until a neighbor can be found to come to her aid."

The constable nodded and quickly shuttled Montressor down the steps and into the cab. It rattled off, leaving Holmes alone with Lucy.

He sighed, "I am sorry" he said again. He gathered the woman up and took her into the flat, laying her upon the settee. Then he watched over her, though he was the only thing in the room that could do her any harm.

Eventually there was another carriage outside, and Holmes recognized Lestrade’s footsteps coming up.

"Holmes," the inspector said, looking about the small flat. "Montressor is secure. Is this his wife?"

"Yes. She swooned when the constable came. What has Montressor to say?"

"He's mad," Lestrade answered, shaking his head. "Going on and on about a fire...'spose that's the arson fire over in Cavendish. They've just put it out, I've heard. One victim, presumed to be the owner." He looked sad for a moment. “It was the new night coroner at the Yard, if you remember the fellow. A quiet man, from what the neighbors say. Kept to himself."

For once Holmes did not correct any of the inspectors erroneous conclusions. "I not only remember him, I was working for him. He hired me because he feared someone was after him. He was right." Holmes didn’t have to feign the regret in his voice, though it came from a different source than the one Lestrade assumed.

"Damn. You rarely fail," Lestrade said, surprised. "I'm sorry."

"There was nothing you could have done. The evidence against Montressor was not strong enough to carry weight." And that, too, was the unfortunate truth.

"The poor doctor must have been terrified. He quit just last night, you know. Must have been planning to get out of the city."

"He was," Holmes lied smoothly. "I...had feared something like this. Montressor was not well man. He was fully convinced Doctor Jackson was dangerous. We agreed he should disappear until I'd collected enough evidence to bring a case against him.”

“What’d he want him dead for?”

“Because he is insane."

"This is a tragedy," Lestrade sighed, removing his hat and threading the brim through his fingers as he glanced down at Lucy. "I do need to take her in, as well," he added softly.

_No you don't._ "I do not think so, no. She is under a great strain; I would keep her as much apart from the thing as can be managed. Her husband’s crime is not hers to answer for.”

“She might know something of the business,” Lestrade argued halfheartedly, his will not in the fight.

“Whatever she knows you can likely get from Montressor himself. The man is mad," Holmes said truthfully enough. "I doubt you will have much trouble getting a confession of one sort or another from him.”

Lestrade smiled sadly, backing down. "Very well. I suppose I can leave a constable to watch over her until she comes around." He stepped outside the flat to fetch one of his officers and Holmes left before the lies could get any heaver, turning his collar to the wind and his back to Dossett Street in something very nearly like retreat. It was a bad business all around and nothing settled to his satisfaction, but it was done. He paid a cabbie to drop him off at the corner of Baker Street and Marylebone and walked the short, unhappy distance home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you're doing editing and realize you forgot to mention Holmes nicking the pack of matches from Montressor's shop so you have to go back and add the line in because it's a small but important detail. 
> 
> (This entire story hinges on small but important details.)


	16. Auld Lang Syne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: none

_"Some people would no doubt find it surprising were I to say that Sherlock Holmes was one of the most judgmental people I have ever met. However, this confusion might be better understood if I say he never made a judgement in haste; always waiting until he had acquired all relevant facts before pronouncing his verdict upon one person or another. But none the less he judged, often with a profundity that went far deeper than any jury or courtroom, and I was soon to discover there was no-one he judged more harshly than himself."_

  
  


Chapter 16: Auld Lang Syne   


  
  


No light illuminated the windows as he approached but that meant little; Watson could see as easily in the dark as he could the light and Holmes hoped it meant the doctor had the presence of mind not to announce himself. He slipped the key in the lock and let himself in quietly enough not to wake Mrs. Hudson, slowly mounting the stairs to his rooms. Atlas himself could not have felt a heavier weight upon his shoulders.

Generally, at the conclusion of a successful case he experienced a feeling of elation; a heady mixture of adrenaline and triumph. There was nothing quite like it; no chemical substitute could compare (and he'd certainly looked). He lived for the feeling, those brief moments of exaltation.

Such was not the case, this time.

He found Watson standing in the darkness of the sitting room, reading one of the many discarded newspapers Holmes had laying about and perfectly unbothered by the lack of light.

"You're here much earlier than you predicted," he noted.

"One can never be quite certain how the Yard's incompetence will affect the back end of an investigation," Holmes explained. "All one can reasonably be certain of is that there will be incompetence. In this instance, they were not interested in asking questions."

"Lucky for us. So, that much is taken care of. But there is still the church to deal with, and Father Newman. What are your plans there?" Watson set the paper down. The headline was from the day Kramer’s body was found.

"For the moment, it is to wait. To move against Newman the evidence must be irrefutable, else the church will step in to shield him."

“I thought you said he wasn’t a priest.” 

"But Father Deighton is," Holmes reminded him, "and Newman could hardly torture and kill half a dozen men in the clergy house basement without Deighton's knowledge, not to mention disposing of the bodies and evidence afterwards. Would my word hold against the word of a vicar, if I did not have proof?” 

Watson looked unhappy. “No, I suppose it would not. And it makes sense that Deighton would be an accomplice, though it saddens me as well. The Father Deighton I knew seemed a gentle sort of man. But you _do_ think Newman will begin abducting people again now I am gone, and Montressor arrested? He must believe he is safe." Watson sighed thoughtfully, looking out the window at the cobbled street below. "How are you feeling?"

"I do," Holmes said, not bothering to address the second question. "I have been questioning the vagrants who live within sight of the church. The pattern is gruesome but predictable. With Blevins gone, Newman will be looking for new blood."

"New blood," Watson muttered to himself, scoffing. "But what is he killing them for? What is he getting out of it save a- a demented thrill?" He glanced at Holmes from the corner of his eye. "You should sit down."

Holmes would _not_ sit down. Not until he felt like it, which he suddenly didn't anymore. "On the surface, it would appear he is attempting to save their souls, though I am not certain that is the case," he replied, ignoring Watson's attempts to nanny him.

"Save their souls? By murdering them? He sounds like a sadist with a fancy excuse for inflicting pain."

"Indeed, though it may run further than even sadism. I do not know. There is much about this business that has me curious."

"You really should sleep," Watson advised, abandoning all pretense. "You're still missing two pints of blood. It’s a miracle you’re not unconscious."

"I rarely sleep while on a case," Holmes said dismissively. "In any event, there is the business of the garret window. There are shutters of course but I mean to board it as well. There is some lumber in the coal shed..." And then, his mind desperate for something to occupy it, he became distracted by an experiment that had been percolating on the table for the last week and a half; engrossed enough he did not hear Watson either leave or return again.

As such, when next he took notice of him Watson held a wooden tea tray between his pale hands. "Have you had anything to drink or eat since last night?" the doctor asked him, the clinking sound of china and the scent of strong tea pulling Holmes’ focus away from his experiment.

"Hmmm?" He surfaced, and for a moment it wasn’t Watson's voice in his ears. He fought down a sudden pang; the road was steep and slow but he was getting marginally better at ignoring such things. "I don’t remember," he said gruffly, then turned his attention back to the beaker. Dull yellow...what did that mean? He'd written it down...he went in search of his research notes.

"You must eat, or your blood will not return," Watson chastised. "I'll make you something - where do you keep your food?"

"I want nothing from you!" Holmes snapped, hand slamming down and upsetting the beakers of liquid, words more vicious than he'd intended. A moment later he breathed deeply and spun away from the table, grabbing for his pipe. "I am not hungry," he said in a dampened tone.

Watson froze, overcome perhaps by more than just the verbal bite of Holmes' words, but the emotional impact of them as well - all of the pain and ache inside Holmes, the void in his heart that was broken and empty.

"I am sorry I am not Stamford," Watson said quietly. "And that I have caused you so much trouble; more than you deserve. Please, let me do what little I can for you."

"No, you are not Stamford," Holmes replied gruffly, one hand braced on the mantle as he stared at nothing at all. He considered what he wanted to say, and how to communicate it in as few words as possible. Talking right now seemed an unbearably heavy task.

"Stamford was...a gentle soul. He made me a better man by his influence. You have made me a worse one."

Watson’s face went a shade whiter than normal, Holmes’ words hitting perhaps harder than anticipated. "I never intended that," he replied lamely, but that earned him only a derisive scoff.

"I know. You _intended_ to kill me. You did not, and there am I in your debt. You were a dear friend of Stamford and he is dead because of me; there am I in his debt. I have preserved your life - such as it is - and your secrets, at the cost of some few scruples I had left. I cannot say given the thing to do over again I would make the same choice, but what is done is done. I think given all, we can call the debts paid." He saw no reason to be gentle; Watson had lived two lifetimes in the world and was bound to exist for many more. What could _Holmes_ say that would mean anything much to him at all? They were hardly friends. More grudging acquaintances, bound together for a time through happenstance and the shared loyalty to a dead man.

"Do you still intend for me to stay here?" Watson asked after a long stretch of silence.

"Yes. I told you, I wish to keep an eye on you. I can afford no more bloodless corpses turning up on rooftops; I am out of tricks."

"Very well," he replied stiffly. "For right now, I will retire elsewhere for the day, as the upstairs room is not yet ready."

Holmes nodded absently, his eyes still on the wall. He wondered if there had been a better way, something he should have done differently...the pain on Mrs. Montressor's face gnawed at him, even though her husband _was_ a murderer. That was what he had to keep reminding himself of; Kramer had been an innocent man.

He didn’t hear the doctor leave.

***

Despite himself he drifted off eventually, though sleep was neither deep nor restful. He woke a little past dawn, coming out of his room to be greeted with cold tea from the night before. He shrugged and drank it anyway because there was no point in letting it go to waste.

Holmes could hear Mrs. Hudson shuffling about downstairs preparing breakfast. Watson's voice echoed in his ears, _You must eat._ He sighed and went down.

"You're up early," Mrs. Hudson said, looking him over with a critical eye, thin face pinched into a frown. "Or did you not sleep at all?"

"A little," he answered, reaching past her for a bit of toast. "I don't imagine I shall be about much today- is that the paper? Excellent." He snatched it up.

The headline was predictably sensational. An artist's interpretation of a burning house filled a whole quarter of the page and the accompanying article detailed the gruesome murder of the well-respected local physician, Doctor Jackson. The confessed murderer, James Montressor, was a confirmed lunatic whose obvious madness was not likely to spare him the rope. Among other things, it was speculated that "dangerous excursions into the occult" were to blame for the man's unhinged mind.

Holmes set the paper down. "They only left out a few vital facts and fabricated a few more," Holmes remarked. "All in all, better than one usually expects from the press."

"The fire? Oh it's ghastly," Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head. "That young doctor was so nice the night he stopped by with your letter."

"Hmmm," Holmes said without comment. He finished the toast and left, neither aware nor concerned that he had been wearing the same clothes for three days straight.

The first thing to do was visit Mrs. Montressor. He did not _need_ to do this, but he did. He needed to know she was..he needed to know how she fared.

She cracked the door open when he knocked, pale faced and red-eyed; a woman newly widowed, or as good as.

"You," she spit, her voice hoarse. "What do you want?"

Holmes found himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words. "I came to check on you," he said a bit helplessly.

"Why!?" she asked harshly. "You've sent my husband to the gallows!"

"Because you are innocent of any crime, and I regret having been the catalyst of your pain." He did not say the _cause_ of her pain, because it was Montressor himself who had done that. But Holmes had his hand in it none the less.

"He was protecting me from that fiend!" she hissed. "I'm glad he's dead, it's the only good thing to come from all of this!"

"Protecting you did not mean an innocent man had to die."

Her lips pressed together so hard they went white, and she shook her head determinedly. "He couldn't have. He _wouldn't_. But you've framed him and the Yard hangs on your every word, Sherlock Holmes," she said, spitting his name like a curse. "You're in bed with the devil."

"I am sorry," he said again as the door slammed shut in his face. He didn’t know what he'd hoped to accomplish. He wandered about after that because it was too early for the fighting rings to be open but the city held no distractions for him. No murderers lurked in foreboding alleyways, no blackguards with evil intentions crossed his path. For once the world was content to let him be, and he felt there was something deeply unfair about that.

He eventually returned home because there was nowhere else to go. Mrs. Hudson was preparing an early supper when he came in, clothes damp from the drizzling rain. She poked her head out of the kitchen and yelled up the stairs at him as he passed by.

“I've got food for you, if you'll have it!"

He harrumphed at her and continued past, but paused on the landing, his hand going to the chain around his neck, the silver band of ivy leaves next to his heart. He closed his eyes, head bowed in something akin to prayer, then he turned and went back to the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson watched him in open surprise as he carved off a small portion of dinner and withdrew to his rooms. It wasn’t much, a few bites to keep him going and on his feet. He'd never much bothered with such things before, but he was trying. For Stamford's sake.

_It had been a beautiful night, the air just so. The fog had lifted enough to actually see the stars and Holmes was in deep contemplation of the few hazy constellations when Stamford appeared by his elbow, a cup of soup in his hand. "It's what's left of dinner," he said softly, handing it over._

_"I don't know what I would do without you, my boy," Holmes replied, taking the cup and setting it on the windowsill._

_"It certainly wouldn't be 'remember to eat'," Stamford said, a laugh in his voice. Stamford had always had a laugh in his voice. Upon their first meeting Holmes had expected to be irritated by it, but instead found it endearing._

_"That is what I have you for," Holmes stated blithely, taking an obedient sip._

_"You may not always have me," his boy replied, and Holmes dismissed the comment as not worth contemplating._

_"You are far too young for such morose thoughts. You have been spending too much time around me."_

_That made Stamford laugh; a worthy cause in any situation. He sobered a moment later. "I suppose it is difficult to love someone who expects to die young and not entertain such thoughts oneself."_

_"You are destined for a long life, never doubt that."_

_"And how can you know? I am not blind to the dangers of our work."_

_"What must I do, to turn your mind from such dark paths?"_

_"I can think of several things," Stamford said suggestively, "but I will settle for a promise."_

_"A promise? How dull."_

_Stamford laughed again quietly, coming to settle against Holmes' back with his chin pressed into the detective's shoulder. "You must promise me, Holmes. Promise that if anything happens to me, you will not do anything rash."_

_"I never do anything rashly," Holmes said, sounding scandalized._

_"No, no. You know what I mean," Stamford admonished. "I will rest easier in my grave knowing I have not driven you to yours."_

_Holmes turned, contemplating his friend. "You've had another dream," he pronounced, and Stamford smiled sadly._

_"I know you think it silly-"_

_"No, not silly. Mad perhaps. Balmy. Utterly delusional. But never silly."_

_Stamford pressed his face into Holmes shoulder, squeezing him tightly. "I dream of fire so often these days."_

_"Dreams have no bearing on the waking world," Holmes told him with certainty, giving his thigh a gentle pat._

_"So I wish to believe." Stamford said, and the quiet ache in his voice tugged at Holmes' heart. "Promise me," he whispered, and Holmes could not refuse him, because Holmes could never refuse Stamford anything._

_"I promise," he said, knowing he would say anything to banish that tone from Stamford's voice. "On our very lives, I swear it."_

_"Thank you," he said, relived, and then gave him that cherub's grin and Holmes put an end to the conversation by going to his knees and giving his boy something far more pleasant to think about._

Three months later Stamford was dead.

"I can make him dream of fire," Watson had said, and Holmes had allowed it because he saw the prudence in such a maneuver, and he was every inch the bastard he felt like.

He pushed the food away mostly uneaten and went to secure the garret room from the sun.


	17. Symbiosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: umm...zombie fungus?

Chapter 17: Symbiosis  


  
  


Watson left Holmes to his odd experiments and morose thoughts, shutting the door quietly behind him as he slipped out into the cold dark of pre-dawn.

Holmes' words had struck deeper than he’d likely intended. Watson had thought, perhaps, that out of all this he might find someone new to trust, another companion. After years of being on his own, Stamford’s simple friendship had been richer than diamonds, more welcome than blood. Watson had not realized how lonely he had been until he suddenly wasn’t anymore, and he had begun to hope at finding a similar comradery with Holmes. Instead he found a man who needed Stamford as badly as Watson had, too damaged and dark to survive in this world without Stamford’s shining light. And two damaged men could not hold one another up in the night.

Watson walked unhurried as the dawn approached. He kept a number of alternate sleeping places hidden throughout the city, experience having long ago taught him to be ever vigilant of both the sun and humans alike. More than one vampire had met its end at the hands of well-meaning mortals who had pulled their supposedly dead body out of whatever makeshift shelter they had found to weather the daylight.

The place he chose that morning was a deep, dark hole beneath a bridge he'd cleaned out and spruced up. A heavy stone no mortal man could move blocked the way in, half sunken into the soft earth. He sealed himself inside like a wretched thing, laid down and waited for the dawn to take his consciousness away.

Watson found himself obsessed with Holmes; he wanted to both linger in the detective’s presence and push him as far away as possible. The pain of memory wafted off Holmes like an unpleasant odor, "Stamford" echoing in his mind like a distant, chronic ache that both attracted Watson and repelled him. Holmes was a kindred spirit, a shattered mirror reflecting Watson’s own emptiness back at him and he seemed incapable of turning away, no matter how much it hurt...

The Earth turned, the sun rose and Watson sank into darkness. If only it were always so easy.

***

He arrived at Holmes’ flat the next evening, coming down from the roof and landing on the thin ledge of windowsill as securely as any man stood on solid ground. Holmes had left the widow unlocked and Watson let himself in, finding the detective deep in whatever chemical experiment had caught his attention some hours ago.

A lone candle burned on the table beside him, throwing half his face into shadow. He looked unwell, eyes feverish in the flickering light and a rash of stubble over his cheeks. If anything, he looked worse than when Watson left him the night before. He watched quietly for a few minutes, enraptured by Holmes' pyretic intensity, a sudden and unexpected cynosure. Then he spoke softly, as one might address a startled animal.

"You need more light; you’ll be blind before you see forty."

"Watson!" Holmes cried with a manic sort of joy the doctor suspected had a chemical origin. "Excellent. What are you wearing?"

"My usual clothes," he said with amusement, wondering where Holmes was going with such odd questioning. "A grey suit."

"Atch, wool. Too bad. Still, you might be of some use. I need a piece of your shirt." Holmes spoke quickly, obsessive sort of mania in his voice.

"My shirt? Whatever for?" he asked, stepping closer and pulling off his jacket.

"Because I am out of samples," Holmes answered as if it should be obvious, and as Watson drew near he could see Holmes' own threadbare shirt had one sleeve missing past the elbow.

"And what is wrong with your left sleeve?"

"I am holding the beaker with my right hand, come," he insisted, motioning with his free hand.

Watson found himself smiling as he stepped into Holmes space, both amusement and curiosity growing. "Should I remove my shirt? I have another in my bag.” It was an old habit left over from the early days of his un-life, before he’d learned to feed without making a mess: always have a clean set of clothes. Perhaps it was silly of him, but he hated appearing unkempt.

"A single piece will suffice," Holmes replied, though that did not really answer the question, so Watson took matters into his own hands and quickly unbuttoned the shirt, handing it over and something told him not to expect it back in one piece.

His instincts proved correct when Holmes immediately poured blood on it.

"What are you-," Watson began, but Holmes quieted him with a wave of his hand before pricking his finger on a needle held in place with a vise and smearing a few drops of his own blood on another part of the shirt. Watson opened his mouth to caution Holmes against drawing blood when he had none to spare but the detective held up a silencing finger, checking his pocket watch. After a few minutes he poured the contents of the beaker he'd been holding onto the ruined material. The pig's blood remained a dark red stain, but the human blood turned a rust brown.

"Ah!" he said with satisfaction, sounding happier than Watson had yet heard.

“A test to detect human blood?” Watson said with genuine interest. “That is quite remarkable.”

"Its practical applications are limitless in regards to criminology,” Holmes agreed, “though at the moment, I can only manage it to work on cotton."

“Do you plan to use it to incriminate Newman?”

“No indeed. I plan on letting Newman incriminate himself. As I’ve said before, I must wait for him to take another victim...but I do not anticipate the wait to be a long one.”

“What makes you so certain?”

Holmes didn't look up from his assortment of beakers as he answered. “Because he will have no choice. He is moved by either compulsion or necessity and either way, his hand will soon be forced; it has been too long. When he strikes again, we shall know of it and hopefully intercept him before he can complete his dark mission."

“What do you mean, ‘compulsion or necessity’? Compulsion I understand well enough, but what is there of necessity to these crimes?”

Holmes paused, glancing at him in a way that made Watson feel lacking in some fundamental area; as though he suffered from a deficit of understanding. “Is it not obvious?”

Watson considered. "The vicar’s sermons had been growing rather bizarre,” he admitted. “He had long been focused on proselytizing- but now I think of it, he preached a good deal about ‘purity of the blood’ towards the end there, before I left. Given Deighton’s sudden fixation on blood and purity, it seems reasonable that Newman is – or was – a member of some obscure sect of Christianity, one that took the idea of the blood of Christ a bit too literally perhaps. If he befriended Deighton and slowly converted the man to his way of thinking, he might be trying to save these men’s souls through some obscure ritual. It would explain why the unfortunate are being targeted, those with vices they perceive as wicked.” 

“You seem to have it all thought out.” Holmes' lips were quirked in a shadow of amusement, and Watson had the distinct impression the detective was laughing at him. 

“You aren’t convinced.” 

“I have my own theories," he replied lazily. 

“Is there a reason you won’t share them?” 

“Several.”

“Well,” Watson replied, feeling nettled but determined to get the man to open up about _something_ , "If you won’t share your theories about motive, do you care to share the plan regarding said interception?"

Holmes glanced at him and shrugged. Holmes was always shrugging at him, it seemed. "When he next hires someone my irregulars will inform me of it. I will then apprehend him, hopefully before he is able to kill again."

"Is there not enough evidence to bring to the police?”

"Do not be tiresome. We have been over this, you know there is not. That is why - much as I would rather not - I must wait for him to strike again. The proof must be absolute, and going to Lestrade ahead of time will do nothing save tip him off."

“That sounds quite dangerous. You should let me come with you. The two of us together can do more than one man alone.”

“That is generous,” drawled Holmes in a way that Watson knew meant his request was about to be unequivocally denied, “but you will not be much use to me if the man is taken during the daylight hours.”

Watson refused to be rebuffed. He’d had time to think before coming over and he knew his own mind. He wanted to be of use to Holmes, and _could be_ of use, if the man would only let him.

“If there is some way I can help, let me." He hated admitting it, but he _cared_ about Holmes, though likely they would both rather he didn’t. Watson had spent a good deal of time and energy trying to hate the man and found he could not. At the end of the day Holmes was a good man trying desperately to hold himself together. Watson could not help but respect that, could not help but want to protect it.

To his surprise and relief, Holmes actually reached for the olive branch Watson held out to him.

"Then my instruction is the same it was a week ago; if I am gone longer than a night, seek me out in the clergy house cellar. If I require your assistance I will try to send word before then, but there may not be time."

"I will," Watson promised, his heart swearing the oath as fervently as a knight on bended knee. "I won't let harm befall you."

"I am quite capable of looking after myself."

"You don't have to be," Watson said, but truth be told, a man who could only come out at night was a terrible guardian.

Holmes was obviously thinking the same thing. "Well, it is comforting to know your assistance is available for twelve hours out of the day. I will endeavor to face peril only between the hours of sundown and sunup."

"I'm aware of my limitations," he said bitterly.

“Then you should not take offense when they are pointed out,” Holmes replied with infuriating reason.

Watson did not technically require air but he huffed anyway; it made him feel better. He was beginning to see how easily Holmes could talk him round in circles. He decided to change the subject. "Is this what you do most evenings? Experiment?" 

"Mmm, no. Sometimes I take cocaine."

"That's a stimulant," Watson mused. "One would think _your_ mind would hardly need to be accelerated."

"I get bored," he said simply. "Though there are days when morphine is more appropriate."

"What does the cocaine do to your mind?" Watson asked curiously. "The isolation of cocaine as a compound happened fifty years after I was turned."

"It makes the mundane fascinating. I once spent an entire night collecting flies in a jar so I could play the violin to them."

"For what purpose?"

Holmes shrugged, "I don't remember."

"I suppose it doesn’t really matter," Watson conceded. "If someone is drunk and I drink from them, I do feel something akin to drunkenness, but I don’t believe I’ve ever had the opportunity to try cocaine. It struck me as useful for surgery, and not much else."

"Most interesting,” Holmes replied with casual disinterest. “I have been considering your condition, would you like to know my hypothesis?"

"I would be delighted." Watson smiled, childishly pleased to discover Holmes had been thinking about him.

"You are host to a parasite."

He blinked, smile frozen to his face for half a second before melting away, pleasure replaced by mild offense. "A parasite?" he repeated, searching the detective’s face for signs of jest but of course there were none; Holmes was a master deceiver.

"Mmmm, are you familiar with Ophiocordyceps unilateralis? It was discovered about twenty years ago by a gentleman named Wallace."

"I'm afraid I don't keep up on zoology," Watson replied a bit stiffly, tone turning frosty as a petulant feeling welled up inside him. "I focus on human medicine."

Holmes tilted his head back and addressed the ceiling, lazy lilt to his voice. "It is a fungus found in tropical climates, possessed of the unique and fascinating ability to infecting living organisms - ants to be specific - and causing them to wander from the nest. They afix themselves to the underside of a leaf and there remain until death some days later. In the meantime, the ant's body is devoured as the fungus spreads like a cancer throughout, eventually entering a reproductive stage where fruiting bodies grow from its head, rupturing to release spores, thus the cycle begins anew."

"Are you proposing vampirism is a disease such as that?" Watson said, deeply affronted. "I assure you, I am perfectly in control of my faculties."

"When you are fed and sated, certainly."

"Any human loses patience when hungry or tired," he replied, hands curled into a fist at his sides. Holmes was sporting with him, he had to be. Watson was not some- some _insect_ wandering helpless and devoid of reason.

"You admitted when you first turned that you could not help killing; it was a compulsion you forced yourself to overcome. That compulsion has a source, Watson. If it does not come from you, then where?"

Watson swallowed, and he _could_ master himself so he did, schooling his features and lowering his tone. "The desire is to feed until one cannot feed anymore; the amount of blood I can consume in one feeding is greater than what a grown man holds. I've had to learn to live with a certain amount of hunger.”

Holmes stared at him hard and then turned away with a shake of his head, as if finding Watson lacking. "You are offended, but that is because you misunderstand me. I am not suggesting you are a mindless drone, overrun and helpless, without free will or thought of your own. Clearly you are not. What I am saying is that there is _something else_ with you inside your skin. Were we to take a purely theological point of view we would call it possession, but I do not see why it must be attributed to an affliction of the soul. It is clearly a physical thing."

Watson pondered that. "The idea is... disquieting. Hard enough to imagine some curse has been placed upon me; to think a disease, an organism, an infection is living within me..." he shuddered.

"Organism I think is the most accurate term. It is not a disease; too much about your biology has changed. A disease that produced such profound differences in you would have killed you as well. Infection again is the wrong word. Infection destroys. Infection kills, or is killed. You however have neither rid yourself of affliction nor succumbed to it. You instead have achieved symbiosis with it; I would wager not everyone does."

Watson shuddered again. What Holmes said actually did make a fair bit of sense, in a fashion. But that did not mean he was comfortable with the idea. "I still don't like the thought of a 'thing' being inside me..."

Holmes shrugged, deeply unperturbed. "Ah well, don't think of it as such then. It is only hypothesis." He ducked his head, but not before Watson caught the glimmer of a smile at the edge of his mouth. The man _was_ sporting with him, even if his comments were genuine. Watson pressed his lips together, unused to being the subject of ridicule, but let the detective have his fun. It was no more than he deserved, anyway.

"You will find the garret room secure tonight,” Holmes said suddenly, apropos of nothing. “That is unless you'd rather back to your underground abode."

Watson started slightly at the knowledge that Holmes had at least guessed he’d spent the night beneath the earth. But why should he be surprised, knowing what he did of the man’s abilities? "I thought you'd insisted I stay here.”

"I would very much prefer it."

"I will, then," Watson said decisively, the matter settled.

Holmes nodded and then proceeded to ignore him in favor of his laboratory and a pile of notes he'd scribbled in three different languages apparently at random. Watson found himself with no great desire to leave, and passed the night entertaining himself with Holmes’ large library of books. It was well past 3 in the morning when he looked back up.

"You should sleep," he advised, noting the exhaustion carved into the edges of the detective's face.

"Just a few more minutes dear boy...nearly finished." It was said idly and without thought, likely because Holmes really was that tired, that engrossed in his experiment.

Watson excused himself wordlessly, heading upstairs to check the security of the garret room and turning the endearment over in his mind, trying to decide whether or not it left a bitter taste in his mouth to know it had not meant for him. Upstairs he spent some time studying the windows, testing the room for light leaks but Holmes, it seemed, had been as good as his word; the boards were secure. The room would remain in total darkness even at the sun’s zenith. But despite all this Watson was not entirely comforted; during the torpor of day sleep he was wholly unaware and impossible to rouse. If Holmes wished him dead all he would have to do is enter his room and pry the boards off the windows. Watson would burn to death in the sunlight without ever having even a chance to defend himself. 

Yet he was prepared to fall asleep in the detective’s house anyway, and hoped Holmes understood what it meant; the trust Watson was willing to extend. Perhaps it would mean something to the detective. Perhaps not.

When he came back down, he found the man exactly where he left him.

"Holmes. You'll be useless in the morning if you don't get some rest."

Holmes looked up, a jeweler's lope screwed into his eye for reasons Watson could not fathom. It made him look distorted, a giant automaton come to life. He glanced at the clock. "Hmmm, yes...you may have a point. Very well, I'll to bed in a moment." Then he bent over his work once more.

Watson sighed quietly, retreating back up the steps and recalling with new understanding all the times Stamford had lamented both Holmes' impossible sleeping schedule and the impossibility of persuading him to alter it. Secretly, Watson had thought his friend likely to be exaggerating. 

He knew better now. 


	18. Of Spiders and Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: a little blood, a bit of light torture.

Chapter 18: Of Spiders and Flies   


  
  


Morning crawled up over the city, cold English sunlight filtering through the dusky windows and Holmes set aside his experiment, grabbed up the oil lamp and took the steps to the garret room with unabashed curiosity.

It was not every day, after all, that one had a vampire sleeping under one’s roof.

The door to the inner room was locked but that hardly made a difference. Holmes did not believe in letting locked doors impede the progress of science and certainly not in his own home. He made quick work of it, bent on one knee with his lockpick tools set out in a line before him. Then he pushed the door open and stepped through.

The room was choked with memory, and until yesterday Holmes had not set foot within for many months. First because he could not bear to, and then because he saw no benefit in doing so. He was attempting to move on. Surrounding himself with the mementos of his dead lover seemed counterproductive, and in this room were all things that reminded him of Stamford, not least of all the man’s bed, which was now occupied by someone - something - else.

For a moment, it wasn’t Watson he saw.

_They were laying together in the mid-afternoon heat of the garret room, half dressed and post-coitus, their bodies twisting around each other. Holmes was reading aloud from a book of poetry while Stamford idly played with his hair._

_'Though one moment’s pleasure  
In one moment flies—  
Though the passion’s treasure  
In one moment dies;—  
Yet it has not passed—  
Think how near, how near!—  
And while it doth last,  
Think how dear, how dear-' _

_How can you read such prosaic nonsense and yet retain the use of your facilities?" Holmes asked in mild reproach but Stamford only laughed at him._

_"I'd have offered you a nice romantic treatise on the decomposition of human remains but I've not any lying about at the moment."_

Holmes took a fortifying breath, labeled those particular memories as irrelevant and shunted them aside; now was not the time. He stepped over to the bed and raised the lamp, examining Watson’s features under the soft yellow glow.

He was mildly surprised to find the doctor’s eyes open. He looked quite dead.

Holmes had encountered many bodies in his line of work. After the first time seeing a man with his limbs stiffened in rigor mortis, the light utterly extinguished from his eyes, one never again made the mistake of confusing a living body for a dead one. The most lauded actor in England could not replicate the vacant, glass-eyed stare of a body severed from its soul.

Watson had such a look about him.

Holmes held the lamp close to the pale face, watching intently but the doctor’s pupils did not react to the change in light. He reached out, brushing his fingers against flesh that was cold and stiff as a corpse. He tried to move Watson’s arm and felt sluggish resistance, ossified muscles tightened and slow to respond.

If he did not know better, he would have pronounced the man dead without hesitation.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, and pressed his ear to Watson's too-still chest, but no air stirred the lungs. He waited, marking the time. It took a full five minutes for that vampiric heart to produce a slow, solitary thump.

Conclusion: Watson was experiencing something akin to hibernation and while the dark presence that animated his dead flesh slumbered, he was a but hair’s breadth from true death.

Holmes had the soul of scientist and an analytical mind to match, and thus naturally devised many interesting and morally questionable experiments he might run on the vampire while it slept...but he would not. He had given his word that Watson would be safe here, and he had no wish to make himself a bigger liar than he already was.

One thing was certain; Watson did indeed need to be protected during the daylight hours. Holmes suspected that were he to examine the ashy remains of the man’s home he would discover sleeping quarters in the cellar, somewhere protected from both fire and sunlight...to that end, Holmes himself could only assure one of the two.

He would need to remedy that, but it could not be done today.

He had other priorities...

***

That morning he went to check on the children he'd assigned to watch the church; eight of his most dependable boys, working in pairs of two. They saw him coming from their vantage point at the corner of Glentworth Street and Ivor, and one of them came barreling towards him in a blur of arms and legs.

"Sah!” he shouted breathlessly, face windswept and reddened from the cold, “Mister Holmes, sah! I seen th' vicar take someone in! T’was just as the bell were chimin’ six. I marked it, sah!”

Holmes eyes cleared, growing sharp as he felt the weariness leave his limbs, slowly replaced with the squirreling energy that always infused him when a case reached its pivotal point. “Has he been taken into the clergy house?” he asked and the boy nodded.

“Right away, he was.”

For a moment Holmes looked bleak and a shadow passed over his face, something that - on other men - might have been called fear. But then resolve hardened his features and he turned the lad ‘round by the shoulders, walking him briskly back to where the other boys waited in an expectant huddle, whispering back and forth in hushed voices. They pressed in around him as he approached and he crouched down, speaking quickly.

“Things are moving swiftly now; you must use the utmost caution from here on. Keep an eye on the clergy house, but you are _not_ to follow me inside. If I have not returned before nightfall, hurry to Baker Street and find Doctor Watson. Tell him where I have gone, and that I require his immediate assistance.”

“What we doin' then, sah?” one of the older boys asked, a stout young lad by the name of Cartwright.

“Then you run, and hide, and wait for me to find you.”

They stared at him with wide, startled eyes, hastily nodding their assurances and Holmes did not doubt them. They had grown up on the harsh London streets and that was a life that came with a certain measure of self-preservation, an instinct for knowing when troubles could be overcome and when they were best avoided.

This was a trouble he was most keen they avoid. On that point he would happily avoid it himself, were not a man’s life hanging in the balance. But the fact that the unfortunate soul had been taken in so quickly could mean nothing good. Holmes would have to act with equal celerity.

Once the instructions had been given he doled out a handful of copper pieces to the boys and sent them off in search of food. He watched as they scattered like seeds, then turned his attention back to the church in contemplation of those tombstone grey walls, the ominous archway like a great maw and the huddled masses desperate enough to seek shelter within.

He checked his watch; it was a quarter past eight.

***

He waited until morning Mass had started, when he knew Deighton would be busy with his sermons. Holmes was a skilled fighter but saw no benefit in taking on two men by himself if there was no need for it. He then he lingered at the corner of the house, watching for the cleaning girl to come out back with the morning wash and slipping through the door behind her. He would have between fifteen and twenty minutes before she finished hanging the laundry and shaking out the rugs.

It should take him no more than ten, less if Newman could be avoided, though that was doubtful. The sham priest would almost certainly be with his latest victim.

The kitchen and hall were both empty as expected, and Holmes paused only long enough to take up an iron poker from the hearth before continuing on to the cellar door. It was closed, locked from the inside and that at least confirmed Newman’s presence. Holmes pressed a knee to the cold stone floor and jimmied open the lock, slipping through and pulling the door shut behind him.

There was light below, and a low moaning sound, and Newman’s voice echoing up the stairwell, “-giveth thy blood, and he shall be cleansed.”

Holmes’ hand tightened around his makeshift weapon as he made his way quietly down.

A lamp with the shade half drawn sat on the floor near the entrance to the secret room, it's light throwing up monstrous shadows upon the walls. The stone door had been pulled open, and Newman stood just within, stoop-shouldered and half bent beneath the low ceiling.

“Will you confess your sins?” he asked the figure in front of him, and there was another low moan, but no words.

Newman raised his arm, a shillelagh of knotted blackthorn in his hand. “For the blood of the covenant is poured out for the forgiveness of sin,” he began, but that was quite enough of that.

Holmes moved, a sudden streak of violence and there wasn’t enough room through the narrow door to strike overhand so he swept down and up, catching Newman between the legs in an area both extremely sensitive and most likely to be remembered.

Newman shouted and crumpled, dropping the cudgel as his hands sought to protect himself. Holmes reached through the door and hauled him out by the scruff of his neck, tossing him up against the stone wall of cellar and clocking him soundly in the face. His knees buckled and Holmes left him in a graceless slide to the floor. He stepped into the small room, the air already heavy with the smell of blood.

The man was on his knees, chained to the wall like a dog with iron rings clasped around his neck and wrists. He was alive but in a bad way, breathing labored and uneven. The commotion roused him slightly and he turned his head, blinking up at Holmes with pain-fogged eyes.

“Shh, it is all right,” Holmes soothed, “I am here to help.” He knelt to examine the rings and found them securely locked but that was solved easily enough; Newman undoubtedly had the keys upon his person.

He pivoted to retrieve them and was greeted by the barrel of a revolver pointing down at him, aimed at his heart. 

“Good Morning, Mister Holmes," Father Deighton said gravely. “Or should I call you Mister Blevins?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to have missed the weekly update. In our defense, one half of the team is busy with Uni and the other half was busy trying to weather spring break with an overactive six year old attached to their leg.


	19. Body of Christ, Blood of Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: blood, graphic violence

Chapter 19: Body of Christ, Blood of Man  


  
  


Holmes smiled thinly up at the vicar. “I believe you have the advantage,” he said, raising his hands very carefully because his life had been threatened often enough to know whether someone was bluffing or not. Deighton wasn’t, and while he was an older fellow and no match for Holmes physically, when a man had a gun in his hand he only needed enough strength to pull the trigger.

“Righteousness always has the advantage over evil, Mister Holmes.”

“Righteousness,” Holmes spat, mouth curdling around the word. “Is that what this is?” He indicated the injured man at their feet.

“Of course,” Dieghton replied, keeping eyes and gun trained firmly on Holmes. “He is a sinner, and his blood requires purification through true confession. Only then will his soul be cleansed.”

“And what was his sin?”

“All men have sins,” the priest answered with chilling indifference.

A groan from the outer room alerted them to Newman’s return to consciousness.

“Are you well, Jacob?” Deighton called, and was greeted with another groan. “You were right; Mister Holmes has returned to the scene of his most recent crime. My apologies for doubting you.”

“The scene of _my_ crime?” Holmes challenged, because the longer he could keep Deighton talking the better his odds at escape, and the longer he could avoid what looked increasingly likely to be the inevitable.

“Your lies, Mister Holmes. You entered my church under false pretense, took advantage of my hospitality...and yet all that might be forgiven. But you are a man much burdened by evil, and the devil's touch, are you not? The sin of deception is a particularly dark stain upon the soul, for how can Christ’s love reach a deceitful heart?”

“Your brand of ‘hospitality’ would have me bleeding to death in a cellar. Under what ‘false pretense’ have you lured so many men to their deaths?”

Th priest was unmoved, hand and gun still steady. “None; I am a man of my word. I offer them work and shelter, and a chance to save themselves from sin. I provide all of these things, in due time.”

His ploy was to keep the vicar distracted. He had already formulated three possible methods of escape, but the most likely required he wait until Newman was conscious and somewhat on his feet, when Deighton had – hopefully – spared a breath of attention for his injured accomplice. Then Holmes would-

The sound of the gunshot was deafening in the small room, like standing next to a lightning strike. The bullet ripped through flesh, lodging into the thick muscle of his upper thigh and the searing, blinding pain of it momentarily wiped his brain clean of thought.

He screamed and collapsed - which in his experience was how most men reacted to being shot - landing half atop the injured man, who let out another low, tormented moan. Or maybe that was Holmes himself.

“You have made a very unwise decision, Mister Holmes. I am sorry it has come to this.”

Holmes could do little but glare up at the man and clutch at his now useless leg. Impressive as his self-control was, no one shrugged off a bullet wound.

Behind him Newman stumbled in, still hunched over and hobbling. Dimly Holmes saw him raise the shillelagh but Deighton stopped him with a withered hand on his arm. “Give him time to reflect and repent,” Deighton said, and Newman cast him a dark look, but dropped his arm.

They backed out of the chamber. "We will talk in a while," the vicar told him, and then the heavy stone door was pushed into place with a hollow, scraping sound that stole the light from the room until he was left in utter darkness. The man chained to the wall wheezed, a tale-tell rattle in his lungs.

The first thing of course was to stanch the bleeding. The bullet hit far enough to the side it had not struck any arteries, and was doing a tolerable job of helping to slow the flow of blood itself but there was enough of him on the floor already. He would need every drop, if he was going to survive this.

He pulled the cravat from his neck and fashioned a crude tourniquet, wrapping it tightly around his thigh and applying pressure to the wound with his jacket. The smell of blood filled his nose, the whole room heavy with it.

He reflected on the fact that if he had to be caught, this was not the worst thing that could happen. There was a time limit on how long he would be here; he need only endure until nightfall. Any hours between now and then spent alone in the darkness and not in their immediate clutches was all the better for him.

The man moaned again, but Holmes had no comfort to offer. He dare not reveal that help would (eventually) come.

“I am sorry,” he whispered softly, but the stranger made no reply, too far gone for words.

Holmes dragged himself off the man, though there was hardly anywhere to go. Propped up against the wall the pain finally overran his senses, and he dropped into a fugue.

***

He was roused by a sharp slap across the face, and when his vision cleared Newman sat crouched over him like a gargoyle, mouth twisted into a permanent sneer.

“You were a fool to return,” he spat.

Holmes forced his own features into a mocking smile. "What an interesting brand of Christianity you've been practicing," he remarked, throat dry as dust and voice scraping. The impertinence earned him nothing but another slap.

"It is all quite biblical," Newman assured him, "supported by scripture. God loves the sacrificial lamb."

"And here I thought the point of the New Covenant was that no more blood would be spilled in his name,” Holmes countered, “And I rather think the diocese would agree with me."

"The blood of the innocent, surely," Newman conceded. "But the blood of a sinner? Spilled in confession to save a man's soul? That is righteous, and the diocese are fools."

"That is madness," Holmes corrected contemptuously. "Where did they find you, Bedlam perhaps? You‘re certainly no priest; you’ve never been indoctrinated.”

Newman's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I was chosen to serve a higher power!" he hissed.

“Higher than God?” Holmes queried and Newman answered, “Yes.” Then he smiled; an empty, cold thing that didn’t reach his deadened eyes. “You will serve him too, in your own way. Just like this fellow...” he kicked the chained man, but there was no reaction.

Newman looked down in mild curiosity, knotting his fingers in the stranger’s hair and lifting his head to peer at him.

"Tch. Dead already? Such a shame; he is no use to us dead."

"I don't generally enjoy watching people hang. I might make an exception for you."

Newman laughed again, a madman's lilt to his voice. "No one is coming for you, certainly not your Master." He grinned cruelly, insanely. "Or did you think he _cared_ what happens to you? You are nothing to him; he can make another."

 _He thinks I'm a thrall._ It was an illuminating bit of information, and Holmes filed it carefully away. To Newman he offered only a cocky, crooked smile. "I have not lived so long in this profession by waiting to be saved," he countered, though unfortunately that was exactly what he must do, this time.

“You _will_ be saved, Mister Holmes. If your confession is an honest one.”

"Go to hell," Holmes answered with savage brightness.

“Alas, I still have work to do.” Then he hit him with the shillelagh.

An explosion of pain, dazzling and white, hot as starbursts. Then darkness swirled around his mind, creeping in at the edge of his vision as the seconds ticked by, his body thrumming in agony. Everything went dim, distorted and there was the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. By the time he regained his senses the dead man had been removed, and Holmes chained to the wall in his place.

Deighton was waiting for him.

"Good afternoon Mister Holmes," the vicar said smoothly. “Are you ready to confess your sins, and die with a clean soul?”

Holmes' silent gaze held nothing but contempt.

"'For the life of a creature is in the blood, and I have given it to you to make atonement for yourselves on the altar; it is the blood that makes atonement for one’s life'," the vicar quoted, looking down at Holmes. "You cannot deny that you are a man of many sins; I know it well."

"You know nothing," Holmes croaked, holding his pain in check. "‘Thus in Christ are we redeemed from the curse of the law, by Christ's blood spilled are we all saved.’ Galatians 3:13. You ought to try reading the _entire_ bible some time. You will find it most illuminating."

The vicar was unmoved. "We can play this game if you like, though it will hardly spare you from judgment. 'Very truly I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you'. We both know there are those among us who drink the blood of men, don’t we, detective.” He leaned in close. “Where is the doctor?"

As if Holmes would concede now, at the denouement of the game. "I had suspected as much. Insane men often see their madness reflected in the world around them. You didn't really think he was a vampire, did you?"

"I know with absolute certainty that he is," the vicar said, voice steady with conviction. "And I know that he still lives, inasmuch as these creatures can be considered alive."

“Doctor Jackson died in a house fire,” Holmes insisted, and Deighton’s face curved in sorrowful smile.

“That you persist in such deceit even now reveals how blighted your soul has become. It is providence that has guided your sinner’s feet here.”

“Murder guided me here, not providence."

Deighton tapped his fingers against his leg. “Confess your sins, Mister Holmes. I assure you I take no pleasure from this work, and I would rather it be done quickly. Confess to the doctor’s whereabouts – that creature who wears a man’s face. Tell us where he is, and begin to unburden your soul from the shadow cast over it.”

Holmes laughed at him. "Whatever my sins, they are between myself and whatever God may exist. If there is such a being, you forsook him the moment you decided to murder people in his name. If there is not, there is certainly no point in 'confessing' anything to you."

"I do not murder in God's name," the vicar corrected, his voice too calm for sanity. "I help them confess their sins and embrace true repentance. Afterwards their purified blood is used for a better cause." He signaled with his hand and Newman entered behind him, a bowl in his hands. He knelt and placed it snugly into the hole in the floor at the end of the stone trench.

"Oh, you murder in someone else's name. How enlightening."

"It is not murder if they willingly give themselves to the cause.”

"Coercion is not 'willing'," Holmes replied scathingly. "Hurt a man enough, he will beg for death. But no one tortured into a thing does so voluntarily."

"Torture is a heavy word. They are lead through the valley of pain to confession; what they choose after is their own will.”

Holmes could only shake his head, and repress a shudder. "Who was it that twisted that mind of yours so spectacularly? I wager you were not always so callous."

The vicar gave him another sad smile. "My history is not your concern. You will understand both my sin and my repentance soon enough." He stepped aside for Newman, who came forward with a rough cudgel, shorter and thicker than his shillelagh. When Deighton looked at him again his face was filled with madness and sorrow. “My judgement shall come someday, and He will not be merciful. But first, there is someone I must save." Then Newman hit Holmes in the head with the club and everything went dark.


	20. Deliverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for: extremely graphic violence, blood

Chapter 20: Deliverance  


  
  


The world rolled over itself like a rusty wheel, lopsided and uncertain. There was a gong sounding his head, the smell of blood and sick- and pain, always that. He clawed his way to consciousness like a drowning sailor fighting towards the ocean surface for air. A hand twisted into his hair and drug his head up, sent multi-colored lights swimming in and out of his vision, his awareness stretched thin as taffy.

"Confess, Mister Holmes. Or there will only be more pain.”

Holmes didn’t answer, simply rode the waves of nausea as the room spun and swooped around him like a carnival ride, analyzing and breaking down the various sensations as data. It was extraordinarily easy to ignore the vicar.

Newman gave his head a firm shake and his stomach roiled dangerously. _Concussion_ he thought sluggishly, and his thoughts stopped there.

“Surely your sins weigh heavily on your soul.” Deighton said, and Holmes couldn’t stop the breathless puff of air that escaped his lips in lieu of a laugh.

“You killed a man this morning; does his death weigh heavily on _your_ soul?” The words came out messy and slurred, tongue thick inside his mouth. His lips felt numb.

“His death was unfortunate, yes. A weak heart, perhaps. But without our intervention he was already bound for hell. Better to have tried and failed.”

“You murdered him before he could confess to anything. Makes his damnation rather your fault doesn't it?”

He got hit again, this time on his injured leg and he cried out, pain blooming sharp and hot as a poker. He twisted against the iron shackles, nerves afire, grinding his teeth together and forcing himself to breathe through the pain as sweat beaded on his forehead.

“We are not discussing my sins, Mister Holmes, only yours.”

Newman spoke up. "You come here in disguise, lie to us, flit around this holy church with ill intentions...how far down the path of sin have you walked, since giving your allegiance to a vampire?”

“He was not-” Holmes began obstinately, but this time the club struck his shoulder and he felt something give. He stopped talking.

“The body found in the remnants of Cavendish do not belong to any vampire,” Newman said. “Did you think we were so ignorant as to be fooled by a corpse? Or did ‘Doctor Jackson’ fail to tell you that his kind turn to ash when they die?”

His breath stuttered, shock pouring through him like he'd been thrown in an ice bath. The good doctor had indeed failed to mention this critical information, and Holmes bit back a curse, casting silent aspersions against Watson's family tree all the way back to the founders. He was less successful at keeping the surprise from his face; not with so much of his concentration already allocated to fighting off pain and nausea.

Newman smirked, noting the momentary surprise. “Perhaps you are not so indispensable as you believed.”

"A man so resilient to physical pain is a man familiar with suffering," the vicar cut in. “And you do suffer, do you not, Mister Holmes? Would not confession be better than this constant spiritual torment? How many morals have you compromised these past few weeks, for the sake of a creature renounced from God’s love?"

Holmes coughed at him and didn’t answer.

"Your silence is answer enough" the vicar said mildly. "But do not worry. Once confession begins, you will see how easy it becomes to unburden your soul, and how welcome the release from earthly cares."

Holmes managed a pained chuckle. "If you can find your answers in my silence, there's no need to ask the questions. Might as well kill me now, save us both some trouble."

"You have not yet confessed to a heavenly witness,” Deighton reminded him. “Were you to die now, you would go to hell.”

That made him genuinely laugh, which was unfortunate because it hurt a good deal, lungs hitching their way through a spastic, broken chortle. "Oh, oh-ow. Oh please don't make me laugh so," he gasped. "It's excruciating."

"Only a fool doesn't believe in the inherent sin of man. What makes you think you are heaven-bound?"

"W-whether I am bound for heaven or hell...is not for you to decide, nor by your hand will my course be reversed. “

For a moment Deighton’s voice grew unbearably gentle. “You poor man. What did Jackson promise you, that you put yourself so completely in his power? Money? Long life?” He shook his head. “Lies, my child. All lies. You will never be free of his dark curse until he is destroyed. Even now, after he has betrayed you, you still keep his secrets. Why? Let us help you; tell us where he sleeps. Confess and the Lord will forgive you, welcome you with open arms.”

When he received nothing but more silence Deighton sighed and turned towards the door, taking Newman with him. As they stepped over the threshold he heard Newman speak quietly to the vicar.

"He will take patience..."

Holmes let out a shaky breath once they were gone, letting go of the pain - and yes, fear - that he had held in check. He swallowed, feeling the metal cuff press against his throat. Various injuries made themselves known, his leg and shoulder throbbing, bruises blooming like purple colored flowers under his skin. He had possibly been in worse circumstances before, but he could not recall when.

***

It was an indeterminable amount of time later before the door scraped open again, lantern light blinding after the utter darkness of stone and mortar.

"How are you feeling?" the vicar asked, the words seeming oddly genuine.

Holmes roused himself, licked at lips that were dry and cracked as old leather. "I've felt better," he croaked, voice sounding like something dredged up out of a gutter.

"Sin hurts," the vicar agreed.

Holmes rasped out a thin and mirthless laugh. "You are certainly persistent in your delusions."

"God is very, very real, Mister Holmes. As is hell. Did you spend the hours in contemplation?"

"Indeed. Would you like to hear my conclusions?" he asked, and Deighton motioned for him to continue. "You are insane," Holmes said definitively.

“Is that all?” Deighton's voice was impassive, unmoved.

“That is the central point.” There was a good deal more that could be said, but talking required effort, and what energy he had left must be used sparingly.

"Is there no sin you'd like to confess to?"

"None that comes to mind. Though if you let me go, I shall hobble about a bit and give it some thought. I'll be sure to keep you informed."

Father Deighton let out a slow breath and stepped aside. Newman appeared behind him, club in hand and unlike the vicar, there was no reticence to his character. He was a man who obviously enjoyed his work.

“You have one more chance, Mister Holmes,” Deighton said. “Only one. Confess, and spare yourself any more torment. I think you are due a rest.”

"And I think you're due a place in hell," Holmes replied with as much malicious cheer as could be managed.

Newman stepped forward. By the time Father Deighton called him off, Holmes had lost three teeth and a fair amount of blood. His head was lolling, blood dripping down his face and into his mouth, slick iron taste like gunmetal. His skull might be broken, his nose definitely was. 

Deighton knelt beside him and ran his hand over Holmes brow, the blood-matted mess of his hair. The priest’s touch was gentle, almost reverent, a parody of a congregant’s benediction. "You are still so stubborn...why not admit to the guilt you feel?"

It took more effort than it should to force the words out through bloodied lips. "I think I am ready," he whispered, voice nearly gone.

Deighton smiled benevolently. "Speak freely my son, and know peace.”

Holmes leaned forward slightly, that the rasp of his voice could be better heard. "Once, when I was seven, I smuggled a milk snake into my room. When it escaped and was discovered I blamed the cat."

Deighton sighed sadly and stood up with a regretful shake of his head. Without even needing a word, Newman came at him and smashed the cudgel into the side of Holmes' knee.

It was by far the worst agony he had ever suffered. Worse even than being shot and he didn't have to look to know his leg was shattered, fractured bone sticking through flesh and the limb bent at an unnatural angle, bowing in towards his body.

He was still screaming when the second blow landed on his shoulder again, and what had given before finally broke with a hollow crunch. The world went hazy and distant, body trembling like an autumn leaf and he thought he must be going into shock, his mind like a skein of yarn come unraveled, spinning giddily inside his head.

Somewhere in the cursed house, something screamed. A great, shrieking howl that brought to mind visions of hell and dancing demons, of eternal fire and tormented souls wailing in lament. It was horrific, and he almost dismissed it as a hallucination dredged up by his fever-soaked mind but no- both the vicar and Newman whipped their heads around.

"Awake already?" Deighton said with surprise and no small amount of fear. "But-" 

"Damn. It's been too long – get the chair,” Newman ordered, “we'll have to take him up. If only the other one hadn't died so soon.”

“He hasn’t confessed yet!” Deighton protested, and Newman shot him a disgusted look.

“There’s no time for that. Or do you want to listen to it scream all night?”

Deighton hesitated, looking conflicted but finally nodded and left, coming back a moment later with a high-backed wheelchair, leather straps affixed to its arms. He pushed it up to the door as Newman unlocked the shackles around Holmes' neck and wrists. With nothing to hold him up he fell, pitching forward and the scream that time he certainly hadn't hallucinated because it was his own.

He was drug with excruciating carelessness into the chair and wheeled to the stairs, where several long boards had been laid down to make a crude sort of ramp. Together they tugged and pulled him up the steps, ceiling passing over him in a sickening blur of light and shadow, and then the feeling of being lifted again, going up again...up the staircase in main hall to the rooms above. A door unlocked and he was pushed inside.

A simple room, a barren room and even now his mind worked to a minimal degree. He understood it was not a room at all but a cage, a prison and the prisoner lay tied to a stout metal bed, lashed by thick leather bonds inscribed with strange symbols and ending in a pair of silver cuffs closed tight around two bone white wrists.

The skin where the silver touched had turned black, cracked like dried mud.

The creature sounded like an animal as it thrashed in pain and hunger, and even in his delirium Holmes could feel its madness, the very walls of the room saturated with its insanity. The desperate gyrations stopped as it caught sight of Holmes being wheeled into the room and it turned to them, thin, paper like skin stretched tight over the bones of its sunken face, and fangs grown impossibly long, curving down past dead lips.

"Father!" it screamed, the voice a deep, rasping snarl. It's eyes burned like hell fire, tormented and desperate.

"I know, my son," the vicar said wearily. "I'm so sorry I made you wait so long, it simply wasn't safe, and the last one died before he could confess-"

 _"Feed me!"_ the bedridden horror shrieked, and Holmes knew enough from his own experience to recognize it as a command, and Order that even _he_ felt compelled to respond to, broken as he was.

_Feeed me..feeeed meee...._

Watson’s words came back to him. _"It is not a human hunger, Holmes...we must feed when we are hungry; it is not a compulsion that can be denied."_

His eyes rolled back into his head as the Order took hold of his mind and he attempted to lift himself pathetically out of the chair and towards the ravenous vampire as the two men quickly pushed the chair across the room. Newman hastily undid the leather cuffs around Holmes’ wrists as the demon’s eyes bored into his mind.

“Come to me!” it growled and Holmes body acted of its own accord, leaning forward slightly as Newman grabbed him by the shoulders, preparing to drag him onto the bed. Behind them Father Deighton murmured a low and fervent prayer.

And then Newman simply wasn’t there anymore. Holmes heard a loud and sickening crack that registered in the back of his mind as a skull shattering on stone, but that didn’t mean anything to him. All that mattered was the demon’s voice in his head, screaming for his blood.

It could not be denied...

The only thing that slowed him was the fact he had exactly one good arm with which to move about. He reached toward the creature; mind filled with the vampire's own hunger as the thing lunged at him, held back by its bonds.

Another body hit the floor.

“Fight him!” a familiar voice screamed, and then he was being pulled away from the bed, chair rolling across the floor and turning him from the vampire's gaze.

A moment later the thing shrieked in agony, Holmes' skull vibrating with the sound as it screamed and writhed in it's death throws.

Holmes screamed too, feeling the vampires pain as it withered and died as surely as he had felt its hunger while it lived. But the connection was purely a mental thing, and he was free of it once the pathetic creature was gone.

Now free of its influence as well, Holmes saw no reason to remain clinging to consciousness.

He was safe now. Watson had come.


	21. Night Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for: blood, descriptions of injury

Chapter 21: Night Watch  


  
  


Watson had only just risen, still shaking the stiffness of torpor from his limbs as he came downstairs with Holmes’ name on his lips, a perfidious sort of happiness trying to wedge itself inside him at the thought of having someone to wake up to. He crushed the feeling down and thrust it aside. This wasn’t a permanent arrangement, after all. Holmes had been quite clear on that point.

Then again, nothing ever was.

A brief glance around the flat revealed the detective was not at home. Watson was not unduly concerned. Holmes’ schedule was as eccentric as the man himself; heaven only knew where he had gone, what mischief he had involved himself in during the long hours Watson was obliged to remain insensible.

And yet, he could not shake the small but persistent voice in the back of his mind that told him something was terribly wrong.

Men were given premonitions for a reason.

He had not been awake a quarter of an hour when he heard a thunder of footsteps on the stairs outside the door, and a moment later a gaggle of boys burst into the room in an umkempt tangle of arms and legs, each talking faster than the other, frantic voices blending together in a cacophony of nonsense.

Watson’s slow heart quickened a beat and he immediately thought, _Holmes_. They had barely known each other a month but already Watson was beginning to recognize the detective’s distinctive brand of frenetic chaos.

“Calm down, all of you calm down,” he said, and pointed to the eldest boy. “You there, tell me what has happened. The rest of you be quiet.”

The lad bobbed his head in acknowledgment and began. “Well sah, it were like this...”

Three minutes later he was leaping across the rooftops towards the clergy house of Saint Cyprian’s Church.

***

He crashed through the door of the vicar's house in a shower of wooden splinters and immediately took the stairs to his left, following the scent of fresh blood, the sound of voices - and he could _feel_ the presence of Another, a vampire – its tortured, diseased mind, its overwhelming hunger.

He didn’t think, he just moved, a kaleidoscopic blur of corybantic energy that carried him up the steps and into the room where Holmes sat in a cane-backed wheelchair, broken and bloody and moments away from true death. Newman’s hands were on his shoulders, already pushing him forward and Watson’s vision went red.

Newman barely had time to look up, had not even fully registered Watson’s presence in the room before Watson had him by the neck and in one quick movement dashed his brains against the floor. Then he turned his wrathful gaze to the vicar.

Deighton backed fearfully away, one hand up in a futile attempt at defense, the other making the sign of the cross over his body. But there was no God in this place and had not been for a very long time. Watson grabbed him almost as an afterthought, flinging him against the wall with shocking strength. The impact caved the back of the vicar’s head in and he slid down the wall in a crumpled heap of bones, a red streak of gore trailing behind him.

The whole business took less than seconds and still he was almost too late, the vampire held back only by the bonds around his wrists and the fact the bed was clamped to the floor. Even so, the creature had a hold on Holmes’ mind and the detective was pathetically attempting to reach it, one bloodied and trembling hand outstretched, mere inches away from the creatures’ mouth.

“Fight him!” Watson shouted, though of course his words would mean nothing to Holmes right now, not while under the influence of an Order. Watson grabbed the back of his chair and spun him around, pushed him away.

“Christ,” he muttered as the thing gnashed and screamed in hunger, tearing at its bonds until the bed frame creaked. Best to put the wretched creature out of its misery... but the only wood in the room was a cross nailed to the wall. Watson ripped it free and stalked over to the pathetic figure, staring down into its frenzied, desperate eyes.

"Sorry," he said shortly before snapping the wood in two, hefting one splintered, jagged end in his hand and plunging it into the tortured vampire's heart. It howled in agony, the walls shaking with the power of its screams as its skin smoked and crackled, turned black and then, finally, disintegrated into ash.

Holmes screamed too, a painful, rasping wail that made Watson wince in sympathy and then he was gone, head slumping forward as consciousness fled.

"Shh, it's alright now," Watson said soothingly, rushing back to Holmes' side. He got a careful grip on the man and lifted him into his arms.

Holmes whimpered and moaned but didn’t wake. He was limp and feverish, bleeding head lolling against Watson’s chest, shattered body a deadweight in his arms. To Watson he felt as light and fragile as a crippled bird.

"Hush now," Watson said again, throat feeling tight. He laid him gently propped against the far wall – the one not adorned with the blood of a dead priest, thank you very much - because there was simply nowhere comfortable to put him, and he couldn’t take him anywhere yet, not until he'd seen to the worst of his injuries.

Fortunately, Watson learned long ago that vampires did not require mortal medicines to heal the sick. Not exactly.

"You won't like this," he said apologetically before ripping off the trouser leg around Holmes' injured knee. It had been shattered to a pulp, bone sticking out through the flesh and Watson's face contorted in anger and sympathy before he bit into his wrist and let a few drops of blood fall into the wound, then repeated the process with Holmes' arm and head and thigh, anywhere the damage seemed particularly severe.

It was only a small amount, just enough to prevent infection, to make the pain bearable. He had to be careful; too much blood and he risked invoking a thrall and Holmes would probably not forgive him. No, he could not _heal_ the detective - not quickly anyway – but he could keep him alive, and relieve the worst of his agony. Already the bleeding from the larger wounds had slowed, and smaller ones stopped entirely. He was hardly well but he would survive.

After that he patched him up the old-fashioned way, using strips of cloth from the bedsheet and his own two hands, seeking out the worst of the damage underneath countless bruises. When he was finished, he pressed his hand to the side of Holmes face and Ordered softly, “Wake up.”

"William!" Holmes gasped as his eyes snapped open, his whole body jerking in response to the command.

"Shh," Watson said, trying to soothe, trying not to feel the clench in his heart as Holmes cried out for Stamford. "It's alright, you're alright, you're safe..."

Holmes squeezed his eyes shut, face tight and whitened with pain. Yes, Watson's blood had made it more bearable, but it would still hurt a good deal. "Oh, Watson- I think my leg is broken."

"It is, it - it definitely is, my friend," Watson said, his voice shaking slightly. "I did what I could to ease the pain. Some of my blood in the wound. It will heal more quickly, and without infection."

"Your- your blood?" he said, words slurred and misshapen and the edge of panic in his voice told Watson exactly what he was thinking.

"It's alright!” he reassured quickly, “not enough to thrall or turn you, I wouldn’t allow that. But a little blood can heal minor wounds, prevent infection in larger ones, you will be perfectly well, I promise..." He was rambling, trying to both reassure and relay all important information at once.

Holmes calmed, and after a moment looked vaguely around, eyes glassy and unfocused. "The vicar?" he asked, mind already turned to the case, even damaged as he was.

"I killed him,” Watson said plainly and without remorse. “Along with his friend Newman and that- creature." He could hardly call it a vampire.

"That...is a problem," Holmes said, which definitely wasn’t the 'thank you for saving my life' that Watson might have been expecting. But when had Sherlock Holmes ever done the expected?

"I know. You were dying - I just... did what I had to do. And now I have to get you out of here,” he said, preparing to take Holmes in his arms once more. Baker Street was both close and convenient, but what Holmes truly needed was a hospital.

But the detective, it seemed, had other ideas. “No, stop- put me down, you fool,” he rasped, and Watson couldn’t even find it in himself to be miffed at the insult, because it meant Holmes was feeling better already.

“You need a surgeon,” he argued, “And you cannot be found here at the scene of such a bloody crime. I can take you to a hospital and return to dispose of the bodies; it won’t take more than an hour or two, and I’ve the whole night before me.”

Holmes only shook his head, swatted Watson’s hands away as he made to pick him up again and grimaced at the pain the movement excited.

"And tell them what?" Holmes breathed though his nose for a moment before continuing, "Lestrade knows I was working a case involving the church. The vicar and Newman both vanish, and I appear at a hospital as you see me. And there will still be...no evidence...of their crimes."

Watson pressed his lips together. Damn Holmes and his infallible ‘logic’. "There is a trail of blood through the house, from the cellar to the upstairs, where carnage ensued. There is a charred corpse-shaped pile of ashes on the bed, and two dead men. There's enough evidence to prove they were dragging a bleeding man upstairs to some horrific fate; perhaps the corpse on the bed is his remains."

Holmes made a sound something between a laugh and a groan. "Too many questions that account neither for my current state nor the pile of ash. I will...survive the night, I assume?"

"Yes of course you will," Watson said firmly. "I’m a doctor. And the pile of ash looks like a body; it's obvious enough it's an immolated corpse."

"An immolated corpse that left the bed sheets unburnt?" He shook his head again. “No doctor, that is not good enough. We-” but whatever he was going to say next was lost in a spasm of pain.

Watson found himself reaching for Holmes, wanting to offer comfort...but what comfort was to be had from the cold, dead hands of a vampire? “I could go to the Yard-” he began, but Holmes cut him off.

"Yes, you who are supposed to be dead.” Even in his current condition the tone was unmistakably acerbic.

“And you have a better idea, I suppose?” Watson challenged, thoroughly exasperated but of course that was a statement born at the very height of stupidity. Were he not so very rattled, he would have known better than to issue such a challenge.

“Of course I do. Doctor Jackson is dead and he must stay that way. Two other men have just died and there must be an explanation. I am injured and there must be an explanation for that as well. In none of these explanations is there room for you. Ergo, if you do not wish the torching of your house and practice to have been in vain, you will follow my instructions precisely.”

“Very well,” Watson sighed, resigning himself to whatever madcap scheme Holmes had just invented, “what is it you need me to do?” He had a feeling he was going to regret those words.

"Firstly, dispose of the burnt corpse. It doesn't matter how."

Watson nodded and set to work, wrapping up the mess in the leftover sheet, ashes crumbling into a shapeless mass at the center. He tied it in a knot and set it aside. “We can take it with us when we leave. What next?"

"Can you break the bonds on the bed, and tear it from the wall?"

Watson walks over to it and pondered “Yes, I think so. I have leverage the poor soul tied to it did not.” Besides, of the two of them he wasn’t newly turned and starving.

"Do so. Make it appear whoever was kept here...got loose. It would not hurt the cause to track a few footprints of blood down the hall on the way out."

Watson nodded, beginning to understand something of Holmes’ plan. He grabbed the metal frame and twisted it between his hands, ripping it free of the fastenings that held clamped it to the floor and tipping it on its side. He next tried to shred the leather straps apart, and here encountered his first real surprise.

The straps would not tear no matter how he pulled at them. “I can’t- the leather won’t budge,” he admitted at last. “It must be something to do with the writing on them. A protective spell of some sort. I can’t touch the silver either, I’m sorry.”

“No matter,” Holmes said, eyes closed and breathing too labored for Watson’s comfort. “It will- not be a terribly hard thing to explain. The constabulary rarely looks past the most obvious.”

“Is there anything else? Why didn't it kill _you_ on its way out?"

"As I was conveniently incapacitated at the time I am unable to say, but possibly because I was not his jailer, and he thought me already dead." That was believable. He _looked_ nearly dead, slumped there against the wall. "Front door open, trail of blood to a hidden room, where someone was kept prisoner for...several months...yes. It should suffice."

Watson nodded, swallowing tightly. “That’s sorted then. What about you?”

“You will leave me here.”

Watson blinked, and thought he must have misheard. “What? I- no!”

“You will. You must.”

He'd never heard anything so ridiculous. Not in a hundred years. “The bloody _hell_ I will! You’re half dead already, you need a damn surgeon! Two of them!”

“I thought you were one? In any case I seem to recall you assuring me I would survive the night,” Holmes reminded him with infuriating pedantry.

“In a _hospital_ you blithering idiot!” Of all the ludicrous, preposterous...the man was mad! Utterly insane, and that same voice in the back of his head reminded him that he’d known that already. Why else would he have invited a vampire to stay with him at Baker Street?

“I cannot go to a hospital,” Holmes continued in that same reasonable tone that made Watson want to wallop some sense into him, “unless you have a suitable answer for how I ended up there when I can neither stand nor crawl."

The worst part of it was that Holmes was right. Of course he was, the bastard. But it still didn’t sit well with him.

“I don’t want to leave you here alone the rest of the night, it’s unconscionable. As your doctor-”

“Oh-ho, _"my doctor"-_ is that what you are?” Holmes wheezed.

“As your _friend,_ let me stay with you. I will leave before dawn; no one need know I was ever here." Noting Holmes' waxy pallor, the distressed rhythm of his breath, he spoke more gently. "And if you are still in great pain, I might be able to ease it a bit more."

Somewhat surprisingly, Holmes relented. “Very well, you may remain, so long as you are gone before anyone wakes. And yes, the pain is...quite acute."

"Alright," he nodded, kneeling down. "Where is the worst of it located? I assume your knee, the fracture is still open..."

"Knee, shoulder, head in... roughly that order, I think. Is there water?" he asked suddenly, and Watson felt rather foolish to have not thought of that himself.

"I - yes, I can find some. Let me do this first." He leaned over Holmes' knee and pulled up his sleeve, biting his wrist again, sharp fangs sinking down into the pale, thin skin. Carefully he let a small measure of blood dribble into the wound, pulling away after a few drops. "I don't want to heal too much," he said with regret. "Not only will it make the story less believable, but there is a risk to you as well."

Holmes nodded in agreement, and already his face had smoothed out, pain lines not so deep as they had been. "I understand. It is a relief all the same."

"I'll go get you some water now,” Watson said hastily, strange twisting feeling in his stomach. He stood and slipped away, busied his hands with filling a cup from the kitchen downstairs. From Holmes' condition Watson surmised he’d likely had neither food nor water the whole of the day.

He was not gone long, some few minutes perhaps but even so when he returned he found Holmes on the verge of losing consciousness, though he came awake for the promise of water. 

"Thank you," he said, taking the cup with his good arm. "Both for the water, and for the rescue."

“Of course,” he said, and looked about for a distraction, eyes falling on the vicar laying still and dead in a pool of his own blood. “To think _this_ was his secret. I wonder why he was...keeping it.”

“I believe it was his son,” Holmes said, “or what was left of him.”

Watson repressed a shudder and glanced at his friend. “How long had you suspected?”

“A vampire? Almost from the beginning, though I did not know the particulars until this night.”

“You should have told me,” he chastised, frowning slightly. They could have come together...Watson would have been more than a match for all three of them. It never would have come this, Holmes laying half dead on the floor, bleeding and broken.

“You should have deduced as much yourself,” Holmes countered, and Watson was forced to admit the truth of it. He, who had boasted of killing every vampire he met in the city, and hadn’t realized one was living right under his nose. He could think of no good response, but thankfully Holmes saved him the trouble.

“I think Newman was a thrall,” he said suddenly, pulling Watson away from his introspection.

“What? Of that creature? What makes you think so?”

“Only a dozen small observations. And no, not the one you destroyed. He was- caring for it, in a fashion. But it was not his Master.”

“Who was then?”

“A fascinating question. One of many.”

Watson didn’t like the sound of that...this case so far had been no better than if Holmes had thrown himself in front of a train. But after all, it was his own fault the detective had gotten mixed up in it in the first place. He hardly had a right to criticize now Holmes was fully invested.

"I could look in the vicar's room for a journal, if you like."

Holmes nodded, "That is an excellent idea. Far better in our hands than the constabulary I think."

"Indeed." Watson stood again and left to wander about the house, making certain to leave a trail of bloody footprints down the stairs and to the door first. As chance would have it there was a journal, thick sheets of vellum pressed between dark leather. Watson only glanced at it long enough to confirm it belonged to Father Deighton, then quickly returned to Holmes. He didn’t like leaving him alone.

He found the detective unconscious against the wall, eyelids flickering in unquiet sleep but his pulse was tolerably steady, and the fever not high enough to be worrying. Watson let him rest, keeping watch through the long night. Several times Holmes woke, disoriented and panicked, and each time Watson hushed him, and resisted the urge to give him more blood. But eventually the inevitable pull of sleep came upon him, heralding the dawn.

"Holmes... I have to go, it's nearly morning," he said softly, giving the man a gentle shake.

"Ah!" Holmes shouted, waking with a start, strangled gasp trapped in the back of his throat that turned into a groan of pain. "Watson...yes, of course. Off you go, my boy," he replied, shooing him away with a flick of his fingers.

Watson shook his head. “I still do not like the idea of leaving you here alone, certainly not in your present state.” It was an understatement, to say the least. But the least was all Watson allowed himself to say.

Holmes hummed in not-quite agreement. “My present state, yes. As to that point, you must remove my bandages.”

“Holmes, _really-_ ”

“If the men who did this are dead, and their prisoner fled, how would I account for being bandaged and cared for?”

Infuriating, impossible man. But Watson could not argue with the logic of it, and Holmes' knowing look said he was aware of it.

“Exactly. Unwrap me and take the evidence with you. Do not worry; someone will be by soon enough.”

"We hope," Watson muttered, but what else was to be done? He owed Holmes dearly. The least he could do was let the detective have his way. He did as he was instructed, collecting both bandages and bedsheet on his way out. At the door he turned back. Holmes had his eyes closed again, and Watson did not want to leave him. "Try not to die," he said, the words sounding far more sincere than he would have liked.

"I've no intention of it, old boy," Holmes replied with a shadow of his usual imperious smile, and Watson thought with a sudden pang, _Neither did Stamford._

He left.


	22. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: none (But we apologize in advance for the massive amounts of exposition in this chapter)

Chapter 22: Revelations  


  
  


It was a long hour before anything happened, minutes passing like single grains of sand through an hourglass as he lay on the floor in a pain-fogged haze. The room dipped and swooped around him, time fading in and out with his awareness and then dimly he heard a woman’s scream, and garbled voices echoing up from the floor below, distant and alarmed. Faraway footsteps thundered about the house, growing steadily nearer and finally a curate poked his head around the corner with a gasp. "Lord!" he breathed out, crossing himself in shock. 

Holmes' head was an iron weight at the end of his neck as he peered blearily up at the man, a crooked smile hanging from his lips. "Good morning," he croaked. "Do be a good fellow and summon the Yard, there's a chap." 

"Oh, Lord- good Lord in Heaven, you're alive!" the man cried, trembling faintly. "The Yard is already on their way - after the man on the roof we take no chances..." 

"Ah, excellent," he sighed, letting his head fall and his eyes shut, and as if by some miracle of translocation the next time he became aware Lestrade was there. 

"Holmes," the inspector said, stepping carefully into the room, a white handkerchief pressed against his face to ward off the smell of blood and death. 

"Lestrade..." Holmes mumbled, wrenching his eyelids open and it felt like tearing the dressing off a fresh wound. 

"Good Lord..." The inspector muttered as he glanced around at the carnage, looking faintly ill. "What happened here!?" 

"I'm not entirely certain," Holmes replied, splintered glass feeling in his throat every time he drew breath. "I was somewhat...impaired, during the excitement." His head lolled to the side and he winced, pain very real despite Watson's earlier attentions. 

“Excitement,” Lestrade repeated with an incredulous shake of his head, staring at Father Deighton’s body where it lay crumpled against the wall. He glanced at Holmes again and blanched, turning towards the door with a gruff shout. “Hurry up with that stretcher, lads!” 

Holmes watched the inspector as he went back to his examination of the room, the twisted metal bed frame with its leather straps and silver cuffs, the trail of crimson footsteps Watson had left in a careful path to the door. He remained silent, letting the inspector draw his own, almost certainly erroneous conclusions.

“Seems we’ve another murderer on our hands,” Lestrade sighed finally, mopping at his brow. “Bloody madman,” he muttered, and Holmes wheezed from his position on the floor. 

“Madman, yes. Murderer, no.” 

Lestrade’s head spun around like an owl to regard Holmes in open disbelief. “Eh? He’s killed two men already, and nearly a third on his way out the door.” 

He closed his eyes against a sudden spear of pain like a trephine being drilled into his cranium. “He- killed the priests, yes. Though that may be the least of the punishments they deserved. As for my present state...you’ve Deighton and Newman themselves to thank for that.” 

Lestrade stared at him, shocked to his core and thoroughly disconcerted, confusion and disbelief at war on his bushy face. “You’re tellin’ me a man of God did that to you?” 

“Two men of God, if you still feel they warrant the title.” 

“Christ in heaven, why!?” 

“Because I had uncovered but a few of their many secrets, and they were quite anxious that I keep the knowledge to myself.” 

“What sort of secrets?” he asked suspiciously, gaze wandering again to the leather straps on the bed, a dim sort of understanding beginning to foment in his eyes. 

“Firstly, that a man was held prisoner in this room, chained to the bed you see there- at least until last night. As for the others-” he paused as a sudden rush of blood swelled into his head, blurring his vision and muting all sound and he knew with the certainty of experience what was about to happen. “Ah, inspector...as delighted as I am that you are here, I fear we must continue...this conversation after...” the words fell apart at the end, unraveling like yarn and vaguely he heard Lestrade yelling again for a stretcher, something panicked in his voice. 

“Les’rade..” he mumbled, and the inspector bent down, ear next to his mouth. 

“Aye?” 

“The- the graveyard... turn it up.” It was all the wisdom he had strength for, and then the darkness claimed him utterly. He gave himself over without a fight. 

*** 

A long while later he woke in a hospital bed, strong medicinal scent sharp in his nose. The pain was dulled to a distant, discordant echo and the world held a crystalline, dreamlike quality that bespoke of heavy morphine. His wounds had been treated and wrapped, broken bones splinted and hidden beneath strips of white plaster. His leg was elevated against several pillows, and his arm lay nestled in a sling across his chest. 

He looked about, pondering if there were any reason at all to stay awake and was moderately surprised to find himself in a private room rather than one of the crowded medical wards crammed wall-to-wall with beds and dying men. 

A stiff-backed constable sat stationed near the door, a copy of The Morning Chronicle in his hands, dated two days from the time of his capture. Well, if the world had gotten on without him for two days, it could manage awhile longer. He fell back asleep. 

They tried to feed him when he next woke but his stomach was quarrelsome and uncooperative, likely as much a side effect of the morphine as any injury. He refused all but tea and even that sloshed about unpleasantly in his stomach. He despised hospitals.

There was a different constable on watch with a different paper, this one proclaiming itself to be an evening edition. 

"Ho there," he called, catching the guard's attention. 

The officer looked over at him with a startled blink, “Sir?” 

"What news, constable?" 

"Of what, sir? The church? 'Tis a mess sir, absolute carnage. Bodies everywhere...not sure at all what happened." 

"Has the inspector been by? There are things we need to...discuss." 

The man gave a quick bob of his head. "Indeed sir. He was here earlier, but you’d yet to wake. I could fetch him, if you like." 

"Please," he entreated, and the constable nodded again, hopping to his feet and hurrying away. Holmes sighed, sat back and enjoyed the feeling of not being in _complete_ pain. 

*** 

Sometime later Lestrade walked in, looking unusually pensive. "I'm glad you're awake," he said, and did indeed sound relieved. 

Holmes eschewed the tedium of exchanging pleasantries and got straight to the point. “You have questions. I shall attempt to answer them as best I am able." 

Lestrade nodded. "What in God’s name has been going on in that church, Holmes? I’ve got dead bodies, murdered priests, escaped maniacs- half the city’s in a panic and my superiors want answers." 

It had been two days. Even the Yard would have been able to put _something_ together by now. “What facts do you have?” 

Lestrade shook his head, hands locking behind his back. “It’s a dark business. Your request and the scene itself were enough to secure a warrant to dig up the graves around the church, though we didn’t know what we were lookin’ for.” 

“And what did you find?” 

“Graves atop graves. Bodies thrown down the same hole with the caskets, and the earth refilled. Seven in all, including one poor soul inside the house, newly dead.” That would be the man Holmes had tried to save. They were likely waiting until nightfall to dispose of the corpse, along with his own... 

“All indigents, yes?” 

He nodded. “That’s it exactly, judging by the clothes. There- wasn't much else left. They’d been buried unwrapped; worms had got at ‘em.” He swallowed, took off his hat and threaded the brim through his fingers. “Anyway, made a thorough search of the house and found that room down in the cellar, blood still on the floor...” he looked up at Holmes as his voice trailed off. “Seems the vicar and his friend were engaged in some very unchristian-like behavior.” The staid understatement made Holmes snort in soft laughter as Lestrade continued. “Obvious enough what he was doin’. What’s not understood is _why_.” 

Holmes sighed. “That is a far more complicated question than you realize. This case has many threads. Even woven together, I am not certain they contain the whole truth.” 

“I’d be grateful for any truth you can give me,” Lestrade said honestly. 

That was doubtlessly true. It was a terrible scandal, and the inspector would have been harried ceaselessly by his superiors over the matter. “Then we must start with the man who was kept prisoner in the room upstairs.” 

“The madman? Another beggar, surely.” 

“No indeed," Holmes corrected, "I believe it was the vicar’s son.” 

Lestrade blanched, nose wrinkling in disgust. "Good Lord. What monster could do that to his own son!?" 

"The vicar, apparently. As for his reasons...to answer that, we must foray into the realm of speculation. But were we able to examine the boy I believe we would discover he suffered from some horrific mental or physical abnormality that necessitated he be kept apart from society...or perhaps he simply inherited his father’s madness. Either way, Deighton seemed to think his son could be cured through the power of faith and human sacrifice- he certainly went on a great deal about the purification of blood during my stay. I suspect his twisted mind sought to 'cure' the child’s ailment through the blood of others. How he planned to go about this, I do not know." It was a lengthy speech, and more than he had said in two days. It left him feeling tired and that annoyed him.

Lestrade suppressed a shudder, swallowing thickly. “Good Lord,” he said again, all other words seeming lost to him. 

"The Lord had very little to do with it." 

"It’s abhorrent. So, this boy - a man now, by the size of his footprints - escaped? He's dangerous, Holmes. Any idea where we can find him?" 

Holmes had to be careful here. Lestrade was not a smart man, but he was tenacious, making the rank of Inspector through his sheer refusal to give up a case, regardless of how outclassed he might be intellectually. He would not easily give up looking for a 'madman' who did not exist.

"I cannot say how old he was for certain; I did not get much of a look at the fellow. As for danger...I do believe the potential exists, but there is reason to hope it is not so great as you fear." 

"What reason could there possibly be? Deighton and Newman both had their heads smashed in, and you nearly joined ‘em. It's a bloody wonder your not dead yourself.” 

" _Because_ I am not dead, inspector. I assure you, every wound I suffer was sustained at the hands of the vicar and his accomplice; the lad had no interest in me at all. He killed the two men who had tormented him and then vanished into the night. He left me for dead, but also left me alive. I will help as much as I can, of course. He should be found but...I hesitate to brand him a mindless killer." 

Lestrade looked doubtful but kept his opinions to himself, turning the conversation down other paths. "In any case, in light of new evidence there's some speculation as to how this business might have tied into the murder of Nelson Langley.” 

Holmes smiled to himself, glad that Lestrade had gathered those particular threads together on his own, as that made Holmes' job all the easier. “Oh, is there now?” 

“A man who can twist metal bed frames and bash in skulls with his bare hands must be strong as an ox. Such a man might have little trouble in dragging a body to the top of a church roof.” 

“A reasonable supposition,” Holmes agreed, his face clean of all guile. “What of motive?” 

“If he’s as mad as his father, would he need one? Anyway, if the boy was...deformed, as you suggest, well. He may have gotten loose one night, and Langley caught sight of ‘em. Everyone knows Langley was half mad himself; his mind might have wandered to strange places. If the next time they met Langley attacked, and the boy killed him...you did say you thought it self-defense. And if he wasn’t locked up before then, he certainly would be afterwards.” 

A small smiled played at the corner of Holmes' mouth. “Hmm, an impressive theory. What of the holes in Langley’s neck?” 

Lestrade shrugged. “Might have had a tool with him. Might think he _is_ a bloody vampire, for all I know. He’s a lunatic, Holmes. What sense is there to make of it?” 

“There does seem to be a curious aggregation of madness among the patrons of Saint Cyprian's,” Holmes noted, and Lestrade spread his hands in hapless agreement. 

“Well, their rector was insane, and like attracts like after all. As to that point, he may have had something to do with Jackson’s death as well.” 

Holmes blinked, caught only slightly off-guard. “I recall reading that Montressor had confessed to that particular murder.” 

“Aye, he did, among his other ravings. He also insisted that Jackson was a vampire himself; could only be killed by fire. He's mad as rabbits, but it's curious sort of claim to make, in light of everything else. So we talked the parishioners again. It seems a number of rumors have been spreading about the doctor; everything from simple infidelity to far more fantastical stories.” 

“And you think the vicar was behind them,” Holmes finished, Lestrade's face telling him that was exactly what he thought. Well, that was all right. Let Lestrade tie it up however he liked, so long as Watson was safe.

“Jackson was your client; did he ever seem suspicious of Deighton or Newman either one?” 

“He was wary of them,” Holmes replied honestly, “but if he had either knowledge or suspicions as to what was going on, he did not share them with me. But it is certainly true that the vicar campaigned very hard for me to believe the doctor himself was behind the disappearances around the church.” 

Lestrade nodded, looking thoughtful. "It seems very possible, then, that if Jackson suspected something and Deighton knew, he might have plotted against him. After all Jackson was a doctor, and much respected at the time. Couldn’t make him disappear with the same ease as a vagrant off the street." 

"As his confessor," Holmes interjected, "Deighton would have had a great deal of influence over Montressor. The man was not of sound mind, and who would know that better than his own priest? Likewise Deighton would know what to say to agitate his madness to the tipping point."

"And then he sent him after Jackson," Lestrade concluded. He sighed, setting his hat back on his head. "Madness. But given near everyone involved is dead or awaiting trial, I suppose speculation is pointless.” 

"Indeed," he said, trying to shift into a more comfortable position and finding the task an impossible one. He tilted his chin toward's the door. “To what purpose is the guard detail?" 

"You nearly died, and we’ve an escaped lunatic running about. I wasn't taking any chances." 

"Unlikely, but prudent all the same; thank you. Has my brother been contacted?" 

Lestrade's face pinched into a faint scowl. "He's a rather difficult person to reach," he grumbled. "I had a telegram sent but have had no answer thus far." 

Unsurprising. Mycroft Holmes had no more of a sociable bend to his personality than himself. Less than, if one were being honest. "No matter, I shall contact him myself. He has a propensity to ignore any correspondence not related to his work." 

"You would think _'Sherlock Holmes injured'_ would get his attention," Lestrade snorted. 

"He has known me all my life, 'injured' stopped being a concern when I was eight." 

That made the inspector laugh outright, a jarring sound that bounced off the white-washed walls. But this was not the sort of place that encouraged merriment, and he sobered soon enough. "Well, I suppose you know him best." 

"Can I be of any further assistance, Inspector?" Holmes asked, still badly injured and deeply tired and Lestrade was at least smart enough to catch the dismissal in his voice.

"No, I think we've enough to take it from here," he said almost gently, and the courtesy chaffed against his skin like sandpaper. He hated being so pitiable a figure; especially in front of someone like Lestrade.

"Ah, well then. You'll forgive me if I don't get up." The words were cuttingly acerbic, though the edge was directed at himself. He closed his eyes and said nothing further. 

Lestrade left, the constable returned and night slipped down over the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> between school, kids, homework and election anxiety, this chapter is very, very late. Sorry.


	23. The Quandry of Distrust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none

_"While Holmes had a gentleman's breeding which allowed him to appear unfailingly charming and affable when it suited him, the plain truth of the matter was that through a confluence of factors which included both a natural reticence and the general observation of human nature (along, undoubtedly, with no small amount of personal experience), Holmes was not a man who trusted easily. He was ever wary of sharing too much of himself, and guarded against such an occurrence with unflagging assiduity. It was a trait we were soon to find we both had in common."_

  
  


Chapter 23: The Quandry of Distrust  


  
  


It was long past visiting hours by the time Watson arrived at Saint Thomas' hospital in Westminster, it's cold, corpse colored walls reflecting the bilious yellow glow of the gas lamps, and the hallways filled with the tangy scent of medicinal soaps that nonetheless failed to completely scrub away the low undercurrent of death and sickness that permeated the air. He made his way towards Holmes room with a purposeful stride and the tawny haired constable on guard outside stood as he drew close, eyes watchful and wary.

“What’s your business here, sir?” he asked, hand hovering near his baton.

Watson didn’t pay him much notice, flashing him a doctor’s smile, warm and reassuring. He reached out with his preternatural senses and probed the man’s mind, finding it imminently open to suggestion. Perfect. “Everything is fine, constable,” he said pleasantly, tone disarming in its open friendliness. “Why don’t you _take a walk?"_ He infused the last three words with his Will and watched as the man’s face went slack, the Order gripping hold of his mind.

“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir,” the officer said distractedly, setting off down the hall in a daze. Watson smirked quietly to himself as the constable disappeared around the corner, then slipped into the room.

He had not properly prepared himself for the feelings that flooded through him at the sight of Sherlock Holmes laying in a hospital bed, his broken body held together with needle and thread and strips of cloth, stitched together like an urchin’s rag doll.

At least, Watson mused with morose humor, he was finally getting some sleep.

He grabbed the vacated chair and pulled it towards the bed, legs making a scraping sound as they dragged across the floor.

“Damn it,” he swore softly, for it had not been his intent to make any noise.

"You are lucky Lestrade's men are on watch,” Holmes slurred at him, coming awake, “they would miss an elephant if it passed them in the street."

"I suggested he take a walk, actually," Watson replied, and situated the chair next to Holmes’ bed, taking a seat.

“If you can manage them so handily, I wonder why you bothered asking for my help. What have you to fear from the constabulary if you can simply Order them away?”

Watson laughed softly. “I can Order one or two, certainly. But not a whole group, and not permanently. They would certainly return once the command faded, and likely in greater number. It is a useful trick to escape immediate detection, but not a permanent solution by any means. How are you faring?"

Holmes offered up a pale and humorless smile. "I feel as though I've been shot."

"Well fortunately you have been, or I should be worried," Watson said with a jovial smirk.

Holmes scowled. "You are in entirely too good a humor. Leave, and come back again when you can comport yourself with less conviviality."

That made Watson laugh all the more, and it felt good. "You're alive, and you will recover. But I should like to examine your wounds; hopefully the doctors here haven’t butchered you too badly."

"I was already butchered,” Holmes countered. “I hardly know how they could have made things any _worse_."

"You would be surprised at the damage an incompetent doctor can do," he snipped, carefully unwinding the bandages around Holmes’ shoulder and knee, prodding gently at the wounds. Fortunately the blood Watson provided had caused both injuries to begin healing at a preternatural rate, and free from all signs of infection. Though the shoulder had been stitched closed the knee was still an open wound, but inside bones were mending faster than they should, and exposed flesh granulating. All-in-all, good signs that Holmes would heal in due course.

"I dare say you shall walk again. Not that I had any serious doubt; I would not allow such an injury to cripple you when it is in my power to prevent it.” He covered the wounds over again, satisfied. “How is the pain?” he asked, and Holmes twitched out a familiar shrug.

“Not so great as it has been. I believe I am on a four-hour cycle of morphine.”

“That is rather a lot,” he remarked a bit disapprovingly.

“It is rather a lot of pain.”

“Yes,” Watson acknowledged, reminded again of the sight of Holmes’ blood on the cellar floor, the bowl at the end of the trench half full of it. He’d understood immediately it had been intended to feed the pathetic creature in the attic, for why waste fresh blood?

He’d gone nearly feral with anger, realizing Holmes had likely been tortured for the whole of the day while he slept, undisturbed and unaware, safe in the garret room at Baker Street. The only thing that kept him tethered to reason, kept him from leaping back up the stairs and tearing their bodies to pieces was the fact that Holmes still lived, and needed Watson to be rational.

Watson shared none of those thoughts. He was acutely aware he cared far more for Holmes than the detective did for him, nor could he expect anything else.

Things had happened much the same way with Stamford. Watson was not unaware of the pattern, the repetition of history playing out like a familiar tune but seemed wholly unable to deviate from the course laid at his feet. Holmes was already here, and Watson already invested.

“That is strange,” Holmes remarked, apropos of nothing and Watson glanced down, torn from his momentary introspection.

“Hmm?”

“I cannot tell what you are thinking. It is most odd.”

“Can you usually tell what people are thinking?” he asked, but it was a foolish question and he knew it. Watson had been given to understand that for all his awkwardness at forming emotional connections, Holmes was a keen observer of human nature, and a shrewd judge of character.

“Nearly always. But you are not human; your eyes do not reflect your thoughts so openly.”

“Can you tell so much by looking at a man’s eyes?”

“His eyes, yes. Also his mouth, his nose, his ears and hands. Everything about man tells a story, if one but observes the details. For instance, I know you fed before you came here tonight.”

Watson’s eyebrows raised and he nodded. “You are right, of course.”

“A drunkard,” Holmes continued, and Watson nodded again.

“Quite so.”

“In an alley.”

“Of course.”

“Near Charring Cross.”

“How on Earth-”

“At around nine o’ clock.”

“How do you _do_ that!?”

“You left him alive,” Holmes finished, “though missing a few mouthfuls of blood.”

“I don’t know why I bother to be surprised anymore,” Watson sighed, “though the last part is no mystery. You already know I do not kill when I feed.”

“Did you find anything of interest among the vicar's things?" Holmes asked, and Watson blinked at the sudden change of topic.

"I did," he replied, and from his shoulder-bag he pulled a thick, bound volume. "These appear to be the vicar's notes. He was meticulously organized when it came to his son’s feeding schedule.” His nose wrinkled faintly in disgust. “I did not read much of it, just enough to realize it was significant."

"Ah, excellent. It will no doubt prove a welcome distraction during my convalescence."

"How long have they told you to stay here?"

"They have not. I was rather hoping to discharge myself before they could. I despise hospitals."

Watson smiled, unsurprised. "Technically you haven’t got a physician, I'm not sure they'll like that."

Holmes flicked the comment away with a twitch of his eyebrows. "A ridiculous assertion; I have you. In any case, it has never stopped me before."

Watson did not let himself ruminate over those first words too deeply. "Have you been in the hospital before, for such severe injuries?" He doubted it; he would surely have heard of such a disaster from Stamford.

"Nothing so severe as this, no. Despite what fanciful stories Stamford might have shared, I do not make a habit of walking blindly into certain danger."

"No," Watson said thoughtlessly, "he said you only wandered blindly when you knew he was there." The effect on Holmes was immediate. The detective went cold, a heavy portcullis crashing down behind his eyes, locking Watson out.

"Quite," he bit out, word sharp and broken off at the end, and Watson didn't need mental powers to catch the bitterness that infused it. 

He balked, chagrined. "Holmes- I am sorry. I didn't mean –”

"I know what you meant," Holmes replied, surprisingly not unkindly. "However, I am- I find myself unable to contemplate Stamford's life without pain, nor his death without guilt. Neither of those things are your fault.”

“No,” Watson admitted, “but I feel as though I bear a certain amount of responsibility for all that has happened since. Though at least in this particular instance, I was not the source of your danger.”

“Weren’t you?” Holmes asked, words pointed enough to cut and Watson felt the floor drop away from under him.

“What?” he said stupidly, blinking like an idiot. How was it Holmes had the ability to muddle him so easily, even broken as he was?

“Why didn’t you tell me vampires turn to ash when they die?”

Ah. “I-” he searched, and found he had no good answer. What could he say in his defense? That he had forgotten? That he hadn’t thought it a necessary detail? That Holmes was too- too _new?_ That the secrets Watson had guarded this long, lonely century were not so easily shared with a man he’d only just met, who’s acquaintance was temporary, and who’s confidence would come to an end as soon as the case was wrapped up?

“I- I did not think it relevant,” he said lamely, and that only earned him a derisive snort.

“I distinctly remember asking you to tell me everything you knew of vampires, and you replied that you knew nothing at all. I did not ask the question out of idle curiosity, doctor.”

Watson felt a wash of irritation suffuse him. True, he was not as forthcoming with the detective as he should have been but he was hardly the only reticent character in the room. “Well why the hell didn’t _you_ tell me you suspected a vampire? I certainly would have helped you, and this outcome could have been prevented entirely.”

Holmes opened his mouth, paused, closed it again, a crease appearing between his brow. For a long moment he said nothing, lost in a silent glower. When he finally spoke his voice was quiet, strained with some unidentifiable emotion. “I- was uncertain of your loyalties.”

Watson huffed, unsatisfied. “So, you do not trust me with your secrets,” he concluded, “only your life.” But even as he said it he understood it to be an affliction that plagued them both.

“You must understand,” Holmes began, “I have only ever taken one man into my confidence. I was not yet ready to do so again.”

But there Holmes was in true error. Watson _did_ understand, better perhaps than he realized.

“No, I _do_ ,” Watson replied after a quiet moment of his own. “Stamford was the only person I had trusted in a hundred years.”

A wry smile brushed over Holmes’ too-pale lips, and he shot Watson a look that knocked the doctor's mind temporarily askew. “It would seem we are more alike than we care to admit.”

Watson was still blinking at him dumbly when Holmes gave a sudden hiss, face contorting in pain and Watson reached for him without thinking. Of course he did. He had done nothing but reach for Holmes since the two of them first met. It was entrenched now, an automatic response.

John Watson would always reach for Sherlock Holmes.

“Holmes!” he whispered fiercely, not wanting his voice to carry too far, but the detective waved him off with an unsteady hand and that, too, was expected.

“I am...as well as can be hoped for, given all circumstance. I believe the morphine is wearing off- the nurse should be by presently.”

True enough, as if Holmes had summoned her from the ether, Watson soon heard footsteps echoing down the corridor.

“You should go,” Holmes told him, but Watson found he had no intention of it.

“It’s all right, she won’t notice me.”

In answer to Holmes questioning gaze he stood and moved to the far corner of the room, cold wall at his back. He closed his eyes, waited until the footsteps had nearly reached the door, then released his Will. _You will not see me now._

A white-cloaked nurse bustled in, syringe of morphine in her hand.

Watson kept his eyes closed, kept the shield of his Will between him and the nurse, maintaining the shroud around her mind. He was not terribly skilled in the art of such mental influence, having had no teacher and no particular talent for it anyway. Besides, he didn’t like using such mental manipulations beyond the necessary fugue created while feeding.

Still, every now and then they had their uses.

He waited until he heard her leave again, her scent fading from the room then stepped away from the wall, coming back to Holmes' side and noting the detective’s eyes had already gone soft and unfocused from the drug. He felt a pang of something that might have been jealousy that someone else was caring for Holmes, easing his pain and making him whole and that - oh that was a dangerous, dangerous feeling and he tried to lock it away.

"There,” he said lightly, voice sounding thin as hammered tin in his ears. “You shall suffer no more. Well, for four hours at least." He smiled, and wondered if Holmes could see how artificial it was.

But Holmes was staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling, humming a broken melody and paying Watson no attention at all. He felt suddenly like an impostor, a wreaking ball that had crashed into Holmes’ life and put everything to ruin, left him bleeding in a hospital bed, that brilliant mind too addled by drug to be of any use at all.

Watson cleared his throat, said roughly, “I- I should be going. I’ll stop by Baker Street before dawn, let Mrs. Hudson know you are all right. She’s been worried about you.”

Holmes smiled soporifically, dreamy-eyed and lazy. "She worries too much. More now than she used to. We pretend not to notice."

Watson sucked his lip between his teeth, and knew he should let the matter drop. But he had never been much good at doing what he should. "'We'?" 

"Hmmm?" Holmes murmured groggily, awareness slipping as the morphine sunk into his blood.

"Nothing," Watson replied hastily, offering another false smile. “I said I should go." He never should have come.

He’d half turned to the door when Holmes’ hand snaked out, winding itself around his coat sleeve.

"Will you...will you stay?" The words were soft, little more than breath. The dose had been a heavy one, and Holmes was almost asleep.

Watson swallowed and tried not to feel his heart tug. "Only if you wish me to."

"Good man," he mumbled, trying to give Watson a pat on his hand and missing badly. And then he was asleep, face smoothing out at last, free of all suffering.

Watson stayed until dawn, until the very last moment possible and when he retreated into the dark space of the garret room for the day, the memory of Holmes' hand on his sleeve was like a spear of light in his chest that chased away the shadows.


	24. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: ummm....mentions of drug use?

  
  


Chapter 24: Mycroft  


  
  


At some point the pain returned, sharp and relentless and Holmes would not recall yelling for morphine but that is certainly what happened. He was tended to, another dose of quiet, mind-numbing euphoria unclenching his teeth and easing the grimace from his face, leaving him in a state of stupefied, almost infantile bliss. He slept straight through the morning, not rousing until sometime well after noon. 

The doctor came in halfway through the day, right as Holmes was being served whatever passed for luncheon at Saint Thomas'. 

Holmes glanced at him. A younger man, but already with a wife and at least two small children at home. He smiled congenially, flawless bedside manner. He'd do well enough for himself in private practice, once age lent him a more distinguished air. "How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?" 

Holmes saw no reason for dishonesty. "Better than I could be. Credit where it is due; this facility has excellent morphine." 

"I've noticed you're fond," the doctor replied, nodding towards Holmes' arm, the crook of his elbow marred with a number of needle marks, some old and some new. "Your wounds are healing exceptionally well, no sign of infection. Could be considered a miracle, considering the condition you were found in." 

"Stranger things have happened," he replied airily. "Shall we talk of my being discharged?" 

The doctor pursed his lips. "We can talk of it, but until your wounds heal over I am reluctant to agree, unless you hire a doctor of your own." 

"I'm certain it can be managed." 

"I'd like evidence of such, but I can't keep you here if you choose to go." 

Holmes smiled, somewhat less congenially. "Ah, it is settled then. Thank you." 

The doctor sighed and shook his head, but Holmes was only one patient of many he was obliged to visit on his rounds. "Will you be leaving now, then?" 

Holmes shot him a parlous look. "Hopping out the door on one leg is a tad undignified." 

"I could procure you a wheelchair.” 

Except he could hardly push himself one handed, certainly not so far as to get home. A fact the doctor knew quite well. "I shall settle for a pen and paper." 

"As you wish.” The doctor left and a bit later a nurse came by with the requested items, handing them over with a questioning look. 

He wrote a message to his brother; _For the love of God, release me,_ scrawled Mycroft's’ business address at St. James across the top and handed it to the nurse, begging her to send it off as quick as she could manage, dear lady. 

And then there was nothing to do but wait. 

*** 

It was late evening by the time his brother arrived. Mycroft Holmes was a tall, ponderous gentleman with thick features and an obviously surfeit appetite. But despite their differences in size, the similarities were striking if one looked below the surface, past the layers of idleness and fat. Mycroft Holmes had the same nose as his brother, the same mouth and chin...and the same eyes; every inch as piercing and calculating as the detectives’ own. 

He looked extremely displeased to be there in person, opprobriate furrow to his brow as he gazed about in open disapproval. 

The nurse led the way to Holmes’ room and Mycroft followed, walking stick held out before him like a weapon, though it was hardly necessary. He had about him an aura of unapproachable severity that seemed to hold the entire world at bay, people moving out of his path to avoid him, like Moses parting the seas. He did nothing to prevent it. 

Mycroft entered the room and stared hard at his brother, no sign that either affection or worry for the younger Holmes had ever touched his heart. 

"There is a great deal of speculation in the papers surrounding your rescue from the church,” he pronounced in a staid tone. “Foolish of you to rush in, you ended up saving no one." 

"I ended up saving whoever would have come after me," Holmes countered, and Mycroft gave a judgmental grunt. 

"They are sending a wheelchair. The fact that I arrived before it tells you how incompetent the staff here are." 

"And to think this is reportedly the finest hospital in London. All the more reason to spirit me away to Baker Street.” 

The furrow between his brow grew deeper, became an open trench. "I should drag you to _my_ home," he retorted, "but I do not relish the idea of hearing your voice every day. Baker Street must suffice." 

Holmes grinned, because Mycroft was only telling the truth, which is all they'd ever done between themselves. Nor did Holmes take any offense to the statement; that Mycroft deigned to come at all, however grudgingly said more than words ever could and they both knew it. "You are a treasure beyond price, brother mine." 

"And you are a thorn in my side, little brother," Mycroft replied flatly. He turned slightly as a nurse came in with a wheelchair and stepped back, least they accidentally brush against each other. Mycroft disliked being touched, and hated hospitals even more than Holmes did. "You are late,” he said to her, magisterial tone to his voice and she blanched, reacting to the words as though Mycroft were her own superior as she hastily pushed the chair to Holmes’ bedside. 

“Sorry sir,” she said, and began helping Holmes into the chair. It was not easy but he managed it, face pale with the effort and sweat on his brow. 

"There now," he panted, getting himself sorted out at last, "straight as arrows..." 

"They've prescribed you morphine to take home," Mycroft rumbled as he motioned for the nurse to grab the handles and lead the way out of the room. "I told them that was unwise, but they insisted." He paused, "I shall be looking after it for you." 

"It hardly makes a difference, I have more in the flat," Holmes replied without a hint of shame. 

Mycroft sighed heavily. "Irresponsible," he intoned as they approached the front door. Mycroft’s personal carriage waited street-side for them, and his trusted valet, Carruthers, stepped down to help Holmes up into the clarence. 

"You think of everything, dear brother," Holmes said, cloying tone crafted with full intent to annoy. It was not that they hated each other; not at all. It was that Holmes was the only person Mycroft cared about enough, _noticed_ enough to register annoyance with, and for his part Holmes was the only man on Earth who knew Mycroft intimately enough to know how to illicit such a reaction in the first place. 

He cherished it. 

Mycroft gave the expected, irritated rumble that seemed forever stuck in the back of his throat while Carruthers and the nurse together supported Holmes enough that he needn’t put weight on his broken leg as he was lifted into the carriage. Carruthers sat next to him and Mycroft squeezed in on the other side, his bulk filling nearly the entire seat. The driver snapped the reigns, the horses stamped their hooves and the carriage trundled off through the muddy London streets. 

"Thank you," Holmes said in genuine relief and gratitude. Mycroft knew how he felt about hospitals. 

"Of course," Mycroft answered, and for a moment sounded nearly genuine. It was a moment that passed between them unremarked upon, like so many others. "Now, onto the business of your recent streak of carelessness... I once again request that you take more care with yourself, brother." 

"I'm straight as a trivet, old boy." 

"You are not," Mycroft countered heavily. "Do not lie to me, you know I despise it." 

"I _shall_ be. The doctor has already informed you of my quick recovery thus far." 

But Mycroft would not be routed so easily; he was long used to Holmes' particular brand of artifice. "And what of the rest of you? Your mind is your worst enemy." 

"My mind is no worse than it ever was. If you did not trouble yourself over it before there is no reason to begin." 

A sound like distant thunder reverberated from deep within Mycroft’s chest. "If you believe I did not trouble myself before, you are a larger idiot than I thought." 

The corner of Holmes mouth twisted up in a crescent moon smile, because of course he knew but it was a victory of sorts to force Mycroft to admit as much. Not that the elder Holmes bothered with such games of chicanery himself; Holmes was the only one keeping score. "Well, then there is no reason to trouble yourself more than you have been, which means I shall see you again around Christmas next, provided neither of us has a more pressing engagement." 

"You know I did not arrange for a private room at Saint Thomas', nor come here at your behest simply to disregard you until Christmas. This is a warning, Sherlock. Show some restraint, or I really will drag you home." 

Holmes sighed and acquiesced, because his brother was all the family he had left, and in many ways had always been as much a parent to him as their own mother and father. And in some ways more so. 

"It was a most peculiar case,” he said in lieu of an apology, “and it required an unconventional solution. For the sake of my anonymous client, I could not enlist the help of the Yard- nor anyone else, for that matter. His life depended on utter secrecy, and still does." 

Mycroft was even more perceptive than himself, even better at putting pieces together and thus that short few sentences would tell him infinitely more than it would tell anyone else. 

"Mm. For your client's safety. I certainly hope Doctor Jackson is doing well, then. Give him my regards." 

"He is well enough considering the number of people who were trying to kill him." 

"It does seem to be a rather unusually high number of enemies for one man," Mycroft observed. His tone held nothing beyond the bland indifference he reserved for most things outside the scope of his narrow interests, but Holmes knew him far better than that. 

If Mycroft were not interested, he would not have commented at all. 

"He is an unusually odd individual." 

"So it would seem. Is continued contact with this ‘individual’ going to encourage further risks on your part?" 

"I do not know," Holmes answered honestly. "It seems he lived rather quietly for some time until recent events. Events who's circumstances I think it would be most difficult to replicate." 

Mycroft was not entirely satisfied with that answer, but seemed to accept it, for the moment. "We may hope his life returns to being quiet again now that all of London believes him dead." 

"That was my intention," Holmes admitted. 

"If he is to remain in the city, one might wonder how he plans to make a living." 

Holmes shot his brother a tilted look. “You are taking a rather keen interest in my client’s affairs." Mycroft taking an interest in Watson would be problematic to say the least. Holmes could manage the public, the church and even the Yard with nominal effort. Mycroft was a different matter. 

“Your ‘client’ was nearly the death of you. Of course I am taking an interest. Someone ought to.” 

Holmes dismissed the comment with a flutter. “I have the situation well in hand, brother. “ 

Mycroft remained silent. 

“You might as well say it,” Holmes prompted after a long moment. 

“I know your mind, Sherlock, and your heart. And I know too the self-destructive tendencies to which you are bent. This last half year a shadow has fallen over you. Understandable, but worrisome none the less. It will not surprise _you_ to say I was unsurprised to receive a telegram from the Yard telling me of your injury. I was only surprised that it had taken so long to occur.” 

Seeing Mycroft's thoughts bent in another direction, Holmes relaxed slightly. But only slightly. “It was not consciously done,” he said, and Mycroft rumbled at him. 

“I did not say it was. There are far greater depths to the mind than the surface waves of conscious thought.” 

“How poetic. Truly brother, what occurred was an accident, a miscalculation on my part for I had thought the vicar to be at mass; I had not realized he knew my identity. But here, look at me now; is the shadow so very great as it has been?” 

Mycroft glanced at him in an offhand manner. “You do seem somewhat improved,” he admitted grudgingly. 

“Then you’ve no reason to fear for me.” 

“I shall always fear for you, brother,” Mycroft said blandly in what was, for him, a display of high emotion. 

“Is that why you have kept me under surveillance?” he asked. “I ran into one of your lackeys while investigating the death of Michael Kramer.” 

Mycroft looked unhappy, but Mycroft always looked thus, a near permanent glower forever etched into his face. “No. Your meeting was nothing more than coincidence. I was investigating Kramer’s death myself; it was of interest to certain individuals whom I work with.” 

“Really? You should have come to me; I could have saved you the trouble. It was Mister James Montressor who killed him, if you still wish to know. I don’t know if he ever confessed to it properly, but he likely will at some point.” 

“If they do not hang him first,” Mycroft amended, “and I came to the same conclusion myself some days ago. By that time, Montressor had been in custody for several hours already. But here, we are at your home.” 

It was another small to-do to get him out of the carriage and up the steps to his rooms. Watson might or might not be home; it was certainly late enough for him to be up. Not that Holmes was unduly worried; the doctor could look out for himself. And indeed, Watson did not _seem_ to be at home, at least not to a casual observer. But there was never anything casual about Mycroft’s observations. He looked keenly at his brother. "You are keeping your cases close to home these days." 

Holmes didn’t deny it. If there was one man whose abilities Holmes held above his own, it was Mycroft's. And why not? He had learned observation and study at his brother's knee. 

"He had to be somewhere I could keep a close eye on him, and the arrangement is a temporary one." He winced as Carruthers deposited him a chair and set a footstool beneath his injured leg. 

There was something more than the usual reticence in Mycroft's face. “Be _careful_ , brother,” he warned, “Do not waste your gift.” 

"I have just stopped a mass murderer masquerading as a priest. Would you consider it a waste?" 

"It could have been." Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "You were lucky, and I know neither of us believes in luck." 

"There was a plan," Holmes conceded, "and it worked. I admit I should have liked it to work a little faster, but I am alive and that was the main objective." 

Mycroft simply shook his head and turned to the door. "Foolish and irresponsible." 

"Goodbye Mycroft," Holmes said fondly. 

Mycroft sighed and left, shutting the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are aware that this version of Mycroft deviates from Stephen Fry's portrayal in the 2011 movie. Simply put,this Mycroft did not want to be that Mycroft and refused.
> 
> It's Mycroft, so we let him have his way. Sorry.


	25. Sins of the Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none

Once alone Holmes’ face crumpled in agony and he leaned his head against the back of settee, closing his eyes against the onslaught. His body screamed at him in an eloquent symphony of pain and he momentarily cursed his brother for setting him down so far away from the morphine bottle in his desk. A calculated move on Mycroft's part, no doubt.

From somewhere above he heard the door to the garret room open, and then Watson materialized at his side like an apparition, feet so swift and silent on the stairs Holmes hadn't heard him descend. 

"Holmes -" 

"Ah, Watson...good to see you." He smiled weakly up at the doctor, who frowned back down at him. 

"You are in pain," he observed, already moving toward the brandy decanter. "Did they give you any morphine?" 

"Yes but...it was some time ago, and cobblestones are no friend of the wounded." 

"No, they are not," Watson agreed. "Do you have anything you can take for your relief? I might have something in my bag-" 

"In the second drawer of the desk there," he said, motioning with his good hand. 

Watson moved at once, retrieving both syringe and an unmarked vial of clear liquid. 

"I hope this is morphine," he said, as he brought it over, squinting down at it and Holmes craned his neck for a better view, felt a sharp twinge in his chest as he moved. 

"...Yes. Excellent." 

The good doctor did not make him wait, measuring it out with practiced hands. "A small dose," he explained, "because Lord knows what concentration this is at." 

"A ten percent tincture for morphine," Holmes answered immediately, “seven for cocaine.” He cocked a glance in Watson’s direction, critical tilt to his eyebrows. "I am not as careless as you and Mycroft seem determined to make me." 

"I heard," Watson said. He sat next to Holmes on the settee and carefully rolled up his sleeve, a strange intimacy to the movement that left Holmes feeling oddly discombobulated, sudden turbulence in his stomach like the discordant music of a village shivaree. 

Watson found a vein, slid the needle home and there was another pinprick in his arm, one more hole in the collection of old friends that had born witness to so many of his darkest moods. 

Watson kept talking, voice steady and professional. The monster had been stowed carefully away, and tonight he was only John Watson, healer of the sick. "Your brother is very... perceptive. As much as you, it seems." 

"More so," Holmes corrected. "If he did not know you were upstairs, I would be very much surprised." 

"Do you think he suspects what I am?" 

"I do not see how he could, unless he is far more acquainted with vampires than myself. In any case, if he did, he would not have left me alone with you."

"He seems to care for you, in his way,” Watson commented and the banal sentiment of the statement grated on Holmes’ already delicate nerves. Of course Mycroft cared for him. Such an obvious, useless observation...and yet he found himself not as bothered by it as he might have been. There was probably a reason for that but Holmes was not feeling up to the task of self-reflection at the moment. 

"We understand each other," he said plainly, and left it there. 

"You do. Feeling better?" 

"Yes, thank you,” he replied as he felt the worst of the pain begin to drain away. His eyes were drawn again to Watson’s hands as he stowed away the syringe. Holmes found Watson’s hands fascinating. Nimble enough for the most delicate surgeries, strong enough to bend metal like clay... “It seems this case is nearly at an end,” he heard himself say. “I assume you will not wish to stay here; wooden houses burn entirely too easily to ensure your safe slumber through the day." 

Watson smiled as he poured Holmes another drink, those lovely hands like living marble. "I would say my sleep has been light, but daylight forces the deepest slumber whether I wish it or not. Still, I would prefer somewhere more secure. But until such a place can be found, I would like to stay here." 

"You have a secure place to sleep already," Holmes told him offhandedly. "Somewhere underground, near the river I wager. I have not and will not ask for particulars; such information is dangerous to us both." 

"If sleep were all I desired I have a number of such places about the city. I wish for a _home_ , not a bolt-hole." 

Holmes opened his mouth to make some pithy retort that was of no consequence to either of them. "-I am sorry I burnt your house down,” is what came out instead, and he frowned. It was not what he had intended to say at all. 

But Watson knew nothing of his intentions, and only laughed. “It is hardly of importance now. I am not so attached to material goods as most mortals. In any case, it achieved the goal. The world thinks me dead.” 

Holmes cleared his nose and said, “I am not so certain of that,” watched as Watson blinked at him, eyes wide and slightly startled. 

“What do you mean?” 

_Blue_ Holmes thought suddenly, and the rivers of logic running through his brain were momentarily routed by images of crystal-clear lakes and ice shelves along the arctic sea and other such fanciful nonsense. A product of the morphine, surely. He missed the question. “Hmmm?” 

“What did you mean just now?” 

But Holmes did not answer him directly. “Bring me the vicar's journal, there's a fellow." 

Watson nodded, persistent wrinkle at his brow marring the preternatural smoothness of his face. But he obediently fetched up the tired-looking journal and set it down in Holmes' lap. 

"All of his crimes are listed here, I think." 

"I am more interested in what happened before them," Holmes replied, and flipped purposely through the pages. 

The first entry was dated nearly a year beforehand, and contained the most prosaic of writings; exactly what Holmes might expect from a fervently devout but ultimately uninspired man such as the vicar. The chief of it contained prayers, plans for the church, and insipid musings on the nature of the soul which were not nearly so consequential as the dear departed reverend seemed to think. 

Holmes moved past all of that, unconcerned. He finally found what he was looking for in a passage written some four months previous. Here the handwriting became suddenly and violently distressed, words an inky smear where the author’s hand had passed through them, marring the page. Beside him Watson leaned forward, and together they carefully deciphered the tortured writing. 

_He has my son----god forgive me----fr----unholy creature. But ----my son. I cannot let him burn..._

“The boy’s sire,” Watson said immediately, and Holmes nodded. 

“That fits with the timeline of events so far. It has been three months since indigents began disappearing off the streets around the church.” 

“And nearly as long since Newman came to the parish,” Watson added, and Holmes gave him an approving look. 

“Very good, Watson. That tells us he was certainly the sire’s thrall.” 

A perplexed look briefly tumulted over the doctor’s face. “But...what was the point, I wonder? Vampires rarely create other vampires without reason. Why turn the boy only to let him be chained up and starved? If Newman was his sire’s thrall, he certainly would have known of his imprisonment. Yet he allowed it.“ 

Holmes made no reply, because he did not yet have the data necessary to extrapolate an answer. They read on. 

Many of the pages were filled with more insane rambling as the vicar spiraled into true madness, line after line of near indecipherable ramblings about the burden cast upon him; the demon that inhabited his son’s body, the demands for blood. More than once, there was a plea to God to end the boy’s suffering. 

_“I cannot do so myself,”_ Holmes read aloud at the end of one such plea, _“my own weakness aside,_ He _will know if I attempt it, and his wrath will destroy all.”_

Holmes paused, glancing at Watson. "Do 'sires' often keep watch over their protege?" he asked, and Watson nodded immediately. 

"Quite often, but it doesn't have to be an active thing. There no real need to 'keep watch' per se; they can "feel" when one of their own dies.” 

Holmes let out a long slow breath from between his teeth, infinitesimal calculations taking place behind his eyes. “That is a problem,” he said, and Watson’s brow furrowed. 

“How so?” 

There were many things woven into the look Holmes shot him. It was a fatal flaw of the doctor's that he had pretended to be less clever than he was for so long now he had started to believe it of himself. It was a bad habit, but Holmes was confident in his ability to shake him free of it. “I asked you once to tell me all you knew of vampiric society. You did not, and the results are now upon us. I will ask you again. This time, do not deceive me.” 

Watson reared back like a startled hind, unprepared for the biting acerbity of the words, but he at least possessed the good sense to look properly abashed. “Whatever knowledge I have is yours,” he vowed. “I promise you I do not know a great deal, but if I can answer a question, I will.” 

Holmes did not bandy about, coming straight to the point. “Of what interest would a human institution such as the church be to a vampire?”

Watson considered, speaking slowly. “In of itself, very little, I think. But politics abound in the world of the undead, both their own and those of mortals. As I understand it many older vampires have a surprising amount of control over human affairs; those who lord over a city hold the title of ‘Prince’. I believe it’s a game of sorts they play against each other, maneuvering for control of cities, resources and empires, shaping human society in accordance to their whims and each vying for leverage and power against the others. In that respect, the church would be a powerful tool.” 

“Why? What do they care for human society?” he pressed, urgent undertone in the words, dissecting gaze resting full upon Watson and he tensed under the scrutiny.

“They don’t, really. It’s just something to _do_. Never dying can get quite dull after a while." 

Holmes lips pressed together, face taking on a sharp quality. “This would have been very helpful to have known two weeks ago," he replied and Watson spread his hands in a helpless gesture. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think-” 

“You didn’t think it pertinent, yes I know.” He sighed. “But what is done is done. In light of this information, I think it would be best for you to find new sleeping quarters as soon as possible." 

Watson’s brow raised in mild surprise. “Should I?” 

Holmes’ good hand made a hard fist against the wooden armrest. “Obviously,” he bit out. “To that point, I should not have allowed you to stay at all.” 

Watson looked affronted, openly hurt and Holmes wanted to hit him. "I didn't know the vicar had a vampire son," he said, sounding aggrieved. "We had no reason to suspect another vampire had their hands in all this." 

Holmes did not feel like guiding the doctor to gentle understanding. His mind was hurtling swift down those fast-flowing currents of logic and he needed Watson to keep up. "Why would you think it unlikely, when you have just revealed to me that vampires so enjoy controlling the power dynamics of human society? It should have been your very first suspicion." And it would have been Holmes' too, if he'd known then what he knew now. 

Point in fact, he _should_ have known. He'd asked Watson to tell him what he knew of vampiric society and the man claimed to know hardly anything at all, having been abandoned by his own sire and thus left ignorant of his kind. Well, he'd known more than he'd spoken of and that was a problem now because if Holmes had been told all this beforehand, he would have played his hand quite differently. 

Perhaps, at least, Watson now understood why Holmes so vehemently insisted on the honesty of his clients... 

"Because London has been free other vampires for at least fifty years," Watson said firmly, "because I made it so! This is _my_ city, and do not suffer other vampires to kill indiscriminately within its borders." 

Holmes winced. " _That_ would have been _extremely_ helpful to have known." 

Watson blinked and pulled back at the reaction, fire giving way to a wary sort of confusion. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't think it was relevant." 

"You didn't think it was relevant to tell me you had a maelstrom of supernatural forces ready to converge on you before drawing me into your troubles?" Holmes snapped, and Watson looked stunned, mouth working like a banked fish. 

“I- I don’t have-” he began, but Holmes cut him off. 

"You have rid the city of vampires; obviously not of their influence. You say it has been so for fifty years. What has happened in the mortal world since then? I speak in a general way, and specifically of England. _Think_ Watson. What has happened?" 

Watson’s eyes danced back and forth as he searched his long memory for details. "The-the Yard was founded, and public works... America had a civil war but you speak specifically of London... railroads, but that was the earlier part of the century. Massive population expansion since then." 

Holmes shook his head. "You see the brush strokes, but you miss the larger picture. _Industry_ , Watson. Technology, innovation and automation. We stand on the brink of a new age; civilization is in the midst of an industrial revolution with England at its core...and at the core of England is London. What vampire playing this great game of civilization would forgo the opportunity to capture this city for themselves? What city in all of Europe poses such strategic value? There is Paris, but it is known for its artists and lovers more than its industry, and I do not think I would be wrong in assuming it's claim is already well laid by some clan or another. But here? There is no claim, and no clan. There is only _you_. A rouge vampire, and a lonely Prince. 

Now tell me again, you did not think this information vital."

"I didn't," Watson insisted, and he could not flush with embarrassment but his body language belied the emotion, arms crossed against his chest like a shield, his gaze turned away. "I thought whoever tried to come here, I could handle on my own. I have until now..." 

"London was not so important ‘until now’!" Holmes thundered. 

“I have had no challenges to my claim,” Watson countered, and Holmes tossed him a darkly glowering look, because for all the lauded intelligence of an apex predator, the doctor was acting incredibly thick. 

“Haven’t you? How many vampires have come here looking for the rogue prince, seeking to depose you? You say you killed them all; how many sires across how many clans have felt their proteges die one by one within London’s walls? And you think they would not take notice?” 

It was not possible for Watson’s skin to get paler, but the dawning realization on his face was compelling enough. His eyes were wide as the open sky, and his voice faltered slightly as he spoke. “But- no one has ever addressed me as ‘Prince’, nor offered either official challenge or allegiance-” 

“And how many of them did you introduce yourself to using the honorific?” he asked dryly, nodding in grim satisfaction as Watson caught his meaning almost at once. “They know a rogue Prince exists in London, but they do not know _who_. Your sire is unknown; you have no children, no thralls. You live as a mortal and do not kill when you feed. You are invisible to them, Watson; a ghost, a fantasmic rumor. You surface only to kill them, then disappear into the city once more. And if you have killed every vampire who discovered you, how could your identity be uncovered?” 

“My God-” Watson breathed, sitting back heavily against the settee as the weight of Holmes’ words pressed him down like a paving stone. 

Holmes sighed, setting his hand to his head, feeling the bandages that covered the stitches which held his head together. "I would have done things far differently if I had known. But, it is pointless to dwell on it now. We must look to the future. The sire will know his protege is dead; he will come looking for answers. Perhaps not himself- it is likely he will send someone. Either way, he will know the story in the papers is false. There was only one witness to the whole affair, and that is me. You are not safe here. Certainly not during the day. Not if he sends a thrall." 

Watson looked over at him in sudden alarm. " _You_ are at risk as well, your name is in the papers in connection to the case! Blast me, I can find a place to sleep for the day, I'll move every morning if I have to. But you! You can't even stand!" 

"I am aware of it," Holmes answered, darkly knowing. "Whoever the sire is, he is incredibly clever- and patient. We must ask ourselves if the sudden rash of men out for your blood once the vicar learned of your existence was entirely coincidental. Knowing what we do now, it is likely it was not. For years now there has been only one vampire in London; a rouge element without clan or status, and every immortal player of the Great Game knew it. But they did not know who you were. Your anonymity has been your greatest weapon; it is now gone. There is little chance Newman did not send word of you. You have been identified, doctor. The game is afoot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late chapter is late. Both editors got distracted by other shiny fandoms (The Witcher and Umbrella Academy, respectively).


	26. An Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So about the title...

This story is too damn long. 

That is the conclusion we have come to, after checking the word length and finding it clocking in somewhere between fucktrillion and billiony-fuck. But rather than do the responsible thing and trim it down, we decided to split it up into a series, to make it less intimidating for us to edit and hopefully for you to read. We also changed the title of this work and made the old title the series header, because we're the authors and we can do what we want. 

Chapter 25 is the official end of book one, and the first chapter of book two has been posted. This small addendum will hopefully clear up any confusion anyone has. If not, go ahead and shoot us an ask.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a year(s) long collaboration with my dear friend StarkRogers. Without her I would not have done this at all, and if I'd tried it would not have been nearly as good (or finished).


End file.
